


And Eternity in an Hour

by Selenay



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst and Feels, Background Relationships, Beauty and the Beast (TV 1987) fusion, M/M, Many MCU and SHIELD cameos, Marvel Universe Big Bang 2015, Minor Bruce Banner/Natasha Romanov, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 05:00:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 60,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5193209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selenay/pseuds/Selenay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>He comes from a secret place, far below the city streets, hiding his face from strangers, safe from hate and harm. He brought me there to save my life...and now, wherever I go, he is with me, in spirit. For we have a bond stronger than friendship or love. And although we cannot be together, we will never, ever be apart.</em> </p><p>When Phil Coulson is attacked and left for dead, he is rescued and cared for by an unusual man who looks like a beast. As Phil heals, he learns that Clint is part of a community hidden below the city, where people who don't fit into the world above can live in safety. In time, Phil has to return home, but he vows to change his life and find a happier, better future.</p><p>Phil and Clint believe their time together is over, but they are destined to meet again when their worlds begin to collide.</p><p> <em>A Beauty and the Beast (TV, 1987) fusion fic.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to my beta, [chaneen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/chaneen/pseuds/chaneen), who yet again did not run away when I told her how long this was. She's a star, and this fic would be much rougher (and filled with Britishisms) without her.
> 
> Thanks also to paleogymnast for the wonderful artwork, which can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5204738).
> 
> This is a fic that I've been threatened to write for years, and I finally did it. I'm assured that readers need no prior knowledge of Vincent, Catherine, and co. to enjoy it, but I did try to throw in a few Easter Eggs for fans of Beauty and the Beast, too.
> 
> The title comes from [Auguries of Innocence](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/172906) by William Blake, which Vincent quotes during an episode of Beauty and the Beast, and it felt like exactly the right title for this story.
> 
>  
> 
> _To see a World in a Grain of Sand_  
>  _And a Heaven in a Wild Flower_  
>  _Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand_  
>  _And Eternity in an hour_

_He comes from a secret place, far below the city streets, hiding his face from strangers, safe from hate and harm. He brought me there to save my life...and now, wherever I go, he is with me, in spirit._

The day that changed Phil Coulson's life forever started out perfectly normally, for a Friday. The coffee shop forgot to put a sleeve on his cup, as usual, so his fingers were stinging from the heat when he reached his desk. A file breeding program appeared to have been established overnight, leaving nowhere to put the cup except on top of a blue folder that he didn't recognise. The lid popped off as he set the cup down, sending a wave of coffee sloshing over the side to scald his fingers. Typical Friday-masquerading-as-Monday stuff.

Phil swore and dropped his briefcase, trying to flick the burning liquid away and dig around in a drawer for napkins at the same time.

Most people loved Fridays. The end of the week, the prospect of a weekend.

Somehow, Phil's Fridays were always more stressful than any other day of the week, and weekends never lived up to their promise.

He managed to find a stack of paper napkins and wiped his fingers, wincing a little, although no permanent damage had been done. The stinging had already stopped when he picked up the cup and tried to sponge off the file. It was flimsy cardboard and the coffee had soaked through.

Phil sighed and flopped down in his chair, still clutching the folder. He pushed a few papers aside and put the cup down on the corner of his desk. Coffee had soaked through the first few pages inside the folder, too, partially obscuring the words. He didn't recognise the letterhead on the first page or the name of the client, and the pages stuck together when he tried to turn them.

He was wiping at the top page, trying to soak away some of the coffee so he could read it properly, when someone knocked on his door.

It opened before he could respond. John Garrett never waited for anything as mundane as permission before he did something.

 

He hesitated for the barest fraction of a moment before striding forward, clearly surprised to see Phil sitting there. "Ah, Phil, glad I caught you--Tessa got our files mixed up when she was distributing last night. These are yours. II was worried you'd be going into court with the wrong documents today. You've got the Marshall appeal in an hour, right?"

Garrett held up a small stack of manila folders, and Phil smiled, shaking his head.

"I took the Marshall files home with me last night," he said.

"Of course you did." Garrett grinned and moved to the desk, throwing the folders down on top of Phil's groaning inbox. "Always over prepared; that's why you get the tricky cases."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

Garrett tried to affect a pious, solemn expression, but it never seemed to work on him, no matter how hard he tried. "I meant it as one."

"Hmm." Phil closed the blue folder and held it up. "Was this supposed to be yours, then?"

"Probably."

"I didn't recognise the client."

Garrett shrugged, another wide smile creasing his face. "They're new. Did you spill coffee on it?"

"This isn't turning out to be one of my better mornings."

"I can see that." Garrett glanced around. "I hope your dinner jacket is hiding somewhere, or your day is going to get a lot worse."

"My dinner jacket?" Phi's stomach sank. "My dinner jacket. It's at home."

Garrett snorted and began rifling through the files that had appeared on Phil's desk overnight, pulling out the ones Tessa had misplaced. "You need to get gussied up tonight, remember? The fundraiser. I even found you a date."

"You didn't."

"You bet your ass I did."

Phil crossed his arms. He definitely did not pout. He was at least twenty years too old for that to be reasonable. "You promised not to set me up again."

"You can't go stag to a thousand-dollars-a-plate fundraiser."

Phil sighed, and Garrett's smile widened. He'd won and he knew it, and he was making sure Phil knew he knew it. If they hadn't been friends since law school, Phil would probably hate him a tiny bit right now. Instead, Phil allowed himself a moment's irritation at the smug grin, before mentally conceding that Garrett had a point.

Going to an event like that without a date would only leave him fielding questions about why he didn't have one, instead of making connections and schmoozing, which was the only reason to go to a thousand-dollars-a-plate fundraiser in the first place.

Phil had lost any illusions he'd had about his life years ago.

"Great, I'll tell Minnie that you'll send a car," Garrett said, with an obnoxiously wide smile.

"Minnie?"

"She's a great girl. You're going to love her."

"Minnie?"

Garrett saluted and sauntered out, closing the door behind him.

Phil stared at it for a minute, before saying, "I'm sending a car?"

***

To Phil's complete lack of surprise, Garrett had arranged the car for him. He'd arranged everything, as usual. He'd even anticipated that Phil wouldn't be ready to leave the office until the last minute, so the car picked him up there instead of at home. Phil's black tie and dinner jacket appeared on the back of his door while he was buying a sandwich for lunch. There was no chance of escape.

Not that he seriously considered escaping for more than a minute or two. Garrett was right about the importance of showing up and schmoozing at a fundraiser where half their biggest clients would be making appearances. It was good business practice.

And Garrett had been right about the importance of having someone on his arm, too, even though it made Phil feel uncomfortable. Some of their clients were deeply conservative. They liked to see a pretty woman on their lawyer's arm, instead of wondering what he was hiding by being there alone.

He'd suggested, once, that he could find his own date for one of these functions. Garrett had given him an odd look and laughed.

"Your taste probably doesn't fit with what any of our clients want," Garrett had said. "I'm not saying you couldn't find anyone, but our clients like to see their lawyers with a pretty girl. Not a pretty boy."

Phil hadn't dated anyone who could actually be termed "a boy" for a long time, but he understood easily enough.

Tonight's date, Minnie, was twenty years too young and very blonde. She was perfect.

She wasn't even being paid.

"John is my roommate's second cousin," Minnie said, as Phil nodded to the driver and they pulled out into traffic. "I think someone is once or twice removed in there, too? It's hard to keep track of that, isn't it?"

Phil smiled politely. "I don't have any cousins to keep track of."

Minnie's brown eyes softened. "Small family?"

"You could say that."

"Julie was right about you," Minnie said as they pulled up in front of the hotel where the fundraiser was being held. "You have the prettiest blue eyes."

"Um," Phil said, feeling his face heat.

Minnie laughed and patted his arm. "Don't worry; I'm not expecting a date-date. Julie explained. But I am getting an excuse to wear this dress, at last, and who says no to dinner and dancing when they're promised a date who won't turn into an octopus the moment you smile at them?"

She rested her hand on his arm as they entered the hotel, following the elegantly dressed crowd to the ballroom. Phil showed his invitation to the doorman, and Minnie gasped as they entered.

He'd forgotten the night's theme, and Garrett clearly hadn't explained much when he was inviting Minnie. The ballroom was decorated to resemble a fairy tale forest, from the tiny lights strung between potted trees, to the dinner tables set with shimmering table clothes. The chandeliers overhead dripped with tinsel that caught in the faint breeze, and the walls were hidden behind cloths painted with fantastical trees and creatures that Phil itched to examine more closely.

Even the waitstaff were part of the theme. Fauns and delicate fairies were serving champagne and finger food, weaving between the milling groups of the city's finest and wealthiest.

Minnie's smile was bright. "It's beautiful."

Phil discovered he was smiling, too. "It's to benefit a woodland trust, I think."

A heavy hand clapped Phil on the shoulder, startling him, and Garrett's voice boomed too loud in his ear. "Phil! Glad you could make it."

Phil rolled his eyes. "I didn't have much choice."

Garrett shrugged, unrepentant. His date had brown hair and pretty dimples, which described pretty much every woman Phil had ever seen Garrett with. He definitely had a type.

"If I didn't help you out," Garrett said, with one of his too-wide grins, "you'd be spending Friday night with a case file or whatever single guys do when they're being boring on a Friday night. Instead we're both here, we've got beautiful women on our arms, and that looks like Roger Timmins trying to catch our attention. Shall we?"

"Who is he?" Minnie whispered, as they followed Garrett and his date across the room.

Phil snagged two glasses of champagne from a faun as the walked. "Roger Timmins. He owns fifty restaurants on the eastern seaboard and he's one of our biggest clients."

"Oh," Minnie said, her eyes going wide. She accepted the champagne flute and sipped it. "Huh. Guess this isn't really a fun night out for you, is it?"

"It's more of a working night out," Phil said. "Feel free to desert me if you get bored."

"Can you dance?" Minnie asked.

"I haven't broken any toes since ninth grade," Phil said.

Minnie smiled. "Then as long as you take me out on that dance floor a few times, I can cope with a bit of work talk."

"I'll do my best."

Phil felt his shoulders relax slightly, and he was even able to smile almost sincerely when Timmins shook his hand so hard it that was a miracle his fingers didn't break.

***

The music grew steadily louder as the evening went on and the guests became drunker. There had been a speech after the dinner, completely unmemorable, which had been almost the only time all night when Phil was able to stay still and not think. When he finally sat down in a quiet corner for a few minutes, to rest his aching feet, his stomach was complaining bitterly about only getting a few bite-sized salmon things early in the evening.

Minnie was out on the dance floor with a senator. She seemed to be having fun, which eliminated the pangs of guilt that had been assailing Phil each time Garrett dragged him off to talk to someone else.

As though thinking of him had summoned him, Garrett materialised from the crowd, heading towards the corner Phil was sitting in.

Phil wasn't hiding there. He wasn't. He was resting. In an out of the way place where nobody was supposed to see him, or notice him, or talk to him.

Garrett pulled up a chair and sat down. "Phil! What are you doing over here? Alexander Pierce was just asking after you."

Phil didn't have the energy to smile. "I was taking a break."

"You can sleep tomorrow," Garrett said. "That's what Saturdays were made for. Come on, you should talk to Pierce before he leaves. We're this close to getting the rest of his business, but he won't do it if he can't talk to both of us. Come on, you know how good he'd be for the firm."

"I'm not sure..." Phil frowned. "I've heard some things about his business deals. Do we really need him?"

Garrett laughed. "Do we need him? What are you talking about? His business would put us on the map. We could rent another floor. Expand. You could have that great view we always talked about at law school."

"Is it worth sacrificing our principles, though? You know his reputation."

"He's a sharp businessman and he'll make us a lot of money."

Phil shook his head. "I don't like him."

"You don't have to like him. You just have to shake his hand and cash his cheques."

"And do his work."

"I'll do his work," Garrett said. "He just likes to meet all the faces. You'll barely know he's there."

The lighting was dim in their corner, but when he leaned forward, Phil could still see the flush in Garrett's cheeks and the way his eyes weren't focusing as sharply as they should.

"John, you're drunk," Phil said. "Everyone is drunk. Even Pierce probably isn't sober, and you know we'd advise clients not to sign anything unless they're sober."

"I'm not putting a contract in front of him right now," Garrett said, rolling his eyes. "Give me some credit, Phil."

Phil sighed. "If you're still determined to go after Pierce, I'll meet him next week. In the office. But I'm not comfortable with taking him as a client, and I'm not going to change my mind about that."

"You're a real party pooper sometimes, you know that, right?"

"I'm going home," Phil said.

"Just two minutes," Garrett said. "Shake his hand. Smile. Where's the harm?"

"I'll see you on Monday."

Garrett's expression darkened for a moment, but it was gone so fast, replaced with one of his wide grins, that Phil decided he'd imagined it.

"What about Minnie?" Garrett said.

Phil looked over at the dance floor, where Minnie was still dancing with the senator and seemed to be enjoying his company. There was a bright warmth in her face as she smiled at a joke, and the senator seemed equally smitten. As far as Phil could remember, the senator had a good voting record and his recent divorce had been an amicable split with an unusual--and welcome--lack of scandal attached. Even gossip in legal circles said that he was a good guy.

"I think she'll be fine," Phil said.

Garrett shook his head. "You're killing me here. Come on, two minutes to say hello, and then I'll let you go. I'll even throw in my car again."

"No," Phil said. Every word Garrett said only made the uneasy feeling lurking at the back of his mind grow stronger. "Good night, John. I'll see you on Monday."

Closing his ears to Garrett's final attempt to wheedle him into a meeting, Phil stood and walked away. He stayed in the ballroom long enough to make his apologies to Minnie, who didn't seem disturbed about her date's early exit, before collecting his coat and leaving.

The evening air was a cold slap in his face, and he took a deep breath of it, enjoying the sting of it in his throat. He'd only drunk a couple of glasses of champagne, and the cold blew away the last hint of fuzziness they'd brought.

A valet appeared at Phil's elbow before he'd taken more than two steps away from the hotel entrance.

"Do you have a car, sir?" he asked. "Or can I get you a cab?"

Phil thought for a moment. "A cab, please. Is there somewhere I should wait?"

"You could wait in the lobby," the valet said.

"It's a little stuffy in there."

"I guess you'll have to wait out here," the valet said. "I'm sorry, sir. I'll have a cab here in a couple of minutes."

Phil smiled and put a couple of bills in the valet's hand. "I'm enjoying the evening air. It's fine."

The valet bobbed his head and hurried away, no doubt to call whichever cab firm was giving him the right kickbacks. Phil tipped his head back to look at the sky, but it was cloudy and the stars were hidden. He stared up, anyway.

Sooner than he expected, the sound of a car pulling up caught his attention and Phil sighed. It really was a nice night. Just cool enough, with a breeze to cool his face and the promise of spring in the air.

The cab's window rolled down and a man's voice said, "Mr Coulson?"

Phil nodded and opened the door to slide into the back seat. He was closing the door when something struck him.

He hadn't given the valet his name.

That was the last thought he had for a while. Something sharp scratched his neck, and the world went fuzzy around the edges before fading into blackness.

***

Sounds returned. Muffled, too indistinct to make out words, but enough to tell Phil that he wasn't alone. He was lying on something hard, and his hands had been tied behind his back. After a while, Phil realised the surface under him was vibrating and rocking.

A van?

Engine sounds slowly separated from the muffled voices. A van.

Phil's head was hurting and his mouth tasted like something had died inside. The pain flared higher when he tried to move to relieve some of the pressure on his shoulders, and a wave of nausea made him breathe hard to keep from throwing up.

He hadn't drunk that much. No more than two glasses of champagne.

A sharp scratch. 

The memory came back slowly. Someone saying his name who shouldn't have known it, followed by a scratch on his neck.

Had he been drugged? Why?

And why was he in a van?

Phil opened his eyes slowly. The light was dim, but he was able to make out the shape of two heavy boots not far from his face.

The boots shifted and someone pounded on something metal--a divider?--above him. The banging made him wince.

"He's waking up!" a rough voice said.

The reply was too muffled to understand, but it must have made sense to Boots. He settled and muttered, "Stay where you are."

At least three men, a van, a cab, and the resources to get some kind of sedative. Anyone who could arrange something like this was not someone Phil was going to argue with. He stopped trying to move against his bonds and closed his eyes.

Who were they? And who were they working for?

Phil hadn't pissed off any armed gangs lately--or ever, actually--so they had to have been hired by someone. He wracked his brain as the van rumbled on, but he couldn't think of a single name. Half his clients probably had the money to afford this, but he'd always done good work for them. Why would any of them order a kidnapping?

His personal life was boring enough that it was even less likely to be a source than his work. Unless an ex had been storing up resentment and capital for ten years, there was no one.

The van's rocking became wilder, as though they were driving over rough ground. It made Phil's head hurt and his stomach tried to crawl into his throat. He had to swallow hard and grit his teeth against the wave of nausea, and sweat prickled on his skin.

They lurched to a halt. Phil slid a few inches, his nose meeting one of the thug's boots with a painful crack. Warm blood gushed down his face.

Silence fell as the engine turned off with a sad rattle. So, these were not the kind of kidnappers who bought an expensive vehicle for their work. They'd probably abandon it somewhere as soon as they finished. Set it on fire and walk away.

A shiver ran down Phil's back. Set it on fire with him inside?

The van door opened and Phil squinted as someone shone a flashlight in his eyes. He hadn't seen any faces yet, only a pair of boots and a couple of hulking outlines.

"Get him out," a voice ordered.

Someone grabbed Phil under the arms and hauled him out of the van, throwing him roughly to the ground. Pain exploded in his shoulder as he landed with a sickening crunch. He cried out, he couldn't stop it, and there was a loud bark of laughter.

"There's some life in him, then," the voice said. "I thought you might have dosed him too high."

"I know what I'm doing," Boots said.

He sounded whiny and petulant. Phil tried to look up, blinking the stars out of his eyes, but he still couldn't make out more than dark outlines. They were wearing black clothes and ski masks, he realised.

"What do you want?" Phil asked.

It came out as a shaky whisper instead of the angry demand he was trying for. His throat was dry and sore.

The leader laughed. "Nothing. My employer is paying me very well to shut you up. The boys and I are going to have some fun, and then you won't be poking your nose into anything you shouldn't be looking at again."

Before Phil could say anything, do anything, a solid kick caught him in the gut and he gasped. More kicks came, too many of them, and he couldn't curl up or protect himself because they were coming from everywhere. His chest, his stomach, his sides, his legs. Pain blossomed everywhere and he lost track of what was happening.

He didn't even feel the first cut. The first swipe of a knife down his face. Not until the blood was flowing freely, running into his mouth. Choking him. Then it burned and the knife flashed, catching a reflection from a flashlight, as it cut his face again and again.

Phil couldn't catch his breath. His chest hurt every time he tried, his shoulder grated with every movement, and his face was on fire.

The pain was too much and he sank into the darkness of unconsciousness gratefully.


	2. Chapter 2

Clint liked Central Park after dark. In the right places, it was quiet enough to forget there was a city beyond its borders, and he could even see stars overhead on clear nights.

It wasn't a clear night, but he was enjoying it anyway. The box of supplies in his arms--his excuse for leaving the tunnels--wasn't heavy, and it was a pleasantly cool evening. The children would enjoy the rare treat of big bags of chips and marshmallows. He could even claim that it wasn't his fault; the helper who supplied it usually provided healthy apples and vegetables. Apparently tonight Sam had decided the kids needed something a little more fun.

Clint hitched the box a little higher and lifted his head to the sky, wishing the clouds weren't hiding the stars. He could see better than anyone in the darkness, but he did like tracing constellations and whispering their names as he walked.

His hood fell back as he tilted his head, and he shifted the box to free a hand and pull it up again. There would be no one around at this time, but he'd learned his lessons too well over the years.

A sound made him stiffen, hood only partially pulled forward. An engine.

It was moving closer. Moving fast.

Headlights broke through the darkness and Clint reacted on instinct, crouching low and running to the nearest cover. He ducked down behind some bushes and pulled his hood forward to hide his hair and face. The cloak was large enough to cover his clothes and dark enough to melt into the night, if he held completely still. He draped a corner of the cloak over his box, on the ground, and barely dared to breathe.

A black van careened into the open area he'd been crossing a moment ago. Its engine sounded rattly, as though it was cheap and close to dying, and its brakes whined as it slid to a halt, sending bits of torn up turf flying.

The back doors crashed open and something rolled out of them. Someone leaned out to grab the doors and pulled them closed. A black ski mask hid his face, but Clint caught the gleam of his eyes and the pale skin around them.

The van churned up mud as it took off, turning a tight circle before speeding back in the direction it had come from. Clint waited until the sound of its engine faded completely before slowly letting out a breath.

The thing that had been dumped out of the van's doors moved. A soft groan floated through the air.

Clint twitched. His first instinct was to rush over and help. The man was clearly injured and someone--several someones--had dumped him in the middle of Central Park instead of taking him to a hospital. Leaving him out here, potentially seriously hurt, went against everything Clint believed in.

A soft voice in his head, one that sounded remarkably like Bruce's, cautioned him. Told him to wait, to think first. Not to get involved.

The man was mixed up with bad people. The kind of people who might come after him again.

The kind of people Clint had spent his life trying to stay away from.

If he went over there and helped, he could bring trouble down on all the people he'd sworn to protect.

Except Clint couldn't just leave someone to die. That would be wrong, and worse than wrong it would be cruel and selfish, when he knew that he could help. The man hadn't moved or made a sound since that soft groan. He could be bleeding out.

He could be dead already.

Moving slowly, Clint stood up and prowled closer to the dark shape on the ground. Nobody else would have seen him. This part of the Park didn't get much traffic, even in the morning when the paths filled with joggers. That was probably why he'd been dumped here. Without Clint, it could be a couple of days before anyone found him. If Clint hadn't volunteered to meet Sam instead of letting Natasha or Simmons go, nobody would have been here to witness anything.

Clint crouched and reached out cautiously, touching the man's shoulder. When that didn't get a response, he bent closer, until he could feel the faint flutter of breath against his cheek.

The man was alive, at least, although Clint couldn't make out any details of his face because he was coated with blood. It had soaked into his dark jacket, from the way the fabric felt under Clint's fingers, and more was still oozing from several long cuts. Someone had worked the man over hard. They'd probably assumed he was dead from his injuries, or would die soon enough, at least.

He still might.

The safest, most sensible plan would be to find a payphone and call an ambulance.

Safest for Clint, maybe. But maybe not; there weren't many pay phones on street corners anymore, and he couldn't walk into a bar and use a phone there. Even if he could do it, find a phone without showing his face to anyone, would an ambulance find the man? Hidden in one of the most secluded parts of the Park, far from any lamps or paths, they might not stumble on him until morning. Or ever. That was if they could even be persuaded to come out here.

Clint shook his head. The sensible, safe plan wasn't a good plan.

The better plan was the terrible plan he was sure to get yelled at over, but not until he'd made sure the man was going to live, if he could be saved.

There was no way to tell what injuries were hiding under his clothes and the blood. Clint tried to check his neck, feeling for anything not right with his fingers, before giving it up as an impossible job. With more care and gentleness than Clint knew he was capable of, he lifted the man into his arms and stood up.

The man didn't make any sound. That didn't seem like a good sign.

Holding the man close against his chest, Clint began walking towards the entrance to the tunnels, trying to pretend he couldn't feel warm blood soaking into his sweater.

***

"No, no, no, no," Bruce said.

It was closer to a whimper, really. Perhaps even a moan.

"Clint, what the fuck were you thinking?" Natasha said.

Clint gently lowered the man onto the couch in Bruce's office. "That I couldn't leave him to die?"

"That's exactly what you should have done!" Natasha said. "You can't bring one of them down here. Have you seen what he's wearing?"

Bruce was already kneeling beside Clint, feeling for the man's pulse, but his eyes were worried and he was still muttering under his breath.

"What about what he's wearing?" Clint asked.

Natasha dug her fingers into his shoulder, forcing him to look away from the man and up into her face. Her red hair was standing out in thick tangles, as though she'd been asleep when he barged in. There was a faint impression of a pillow crease on her cheek. Clint decided not to think about that right now.

"It's a two thousand dollar suit," Natasha said. "He's from money. He's from up there. You're putting us all in danger."

"I couldn't just leave him," Clint said. "Bruce, can you save him?"

Bruce sighed. "I'm not that kind of doctor."

Clint glared, barely resisting the urge to snarl a little.

"I'll do my best," Bruce said.

"You didn't have to leave him," Natasha said, clearly not ready to give in yet. "They have hospitals up there. Good hospitals. A man in a two thousand dollar suit can afford it."

"How was I supposed to get an ambulance out there?" Clint said. "They dumped him fifty feet from the storm drain, Nat. I couldn't carry him to a hospital from there, and how many EMTs would actually go out to somewhere like that after a call from someone like me?"

Natasha scowled, but some of the fight went out of her. "You could have come down and told me. I--"

"What?" Clint was aware that there was a hint of growl in his voice, and he made an effort to sound calmer. She was right, in her own way, even though she was actually very wrong in all the important ways. "What would you have done? How would you have gotten him to a hospital?"

"Do you know how much I hate it when you do something stupid and you're right?" Natasha said. "It's a really annoying habit."

Clint shrugged. "Sorry?"

"One day, you will be." Natasha stepped back, only a few inches, but it was enough to tell Clint that she'd given in for now. "Bruce, how bad is he?"

Bruce shook his head. "He should really be in a hospital." He held up a bloody hand to fend off Clint's immediate protest, and Clint subsided. "But we can't move him now that he's here. It might kill him. I'll do what I can."

Clint breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. You got me into this, so you can be my surgical assistant."

"I thought you weren't that kind of doctor," Clint said.

Bruce snorted. "I don't have a choice, do I?"

***

The office wasn't really suitable as a make-shift operating room, but they did their best. Natasha helped to scrub down Bruce's large desk and Clint moved the stranger there, trying not to feel guilty about the way his feet dangled over the end. They cut off the two thousand dollar suit and set it aside for burning. Maybe a few bits could be salvaged and reused, but the blood would never come out and nobody Down Below was desperate enough to need to try.

Natasha disappeared as Bruce began setting out the instruments he would need. She wasn't squeamish, so Clint assumed she'd gone to fetch something. Maybe antibiotics. Someone as badly hurt as the man lying on the desk would probably need them.

Bruce was gentle but thorough. It was one of the traits Clint admired about him, the strength of will hidden under the fuzzy kindness of his exterior.

Clint's role as assistant was mainly to pass things to Bruce. The claw-like fingernails that he'd never been able to file down into anything less dangerous made him useless for stitching or binding the stranger's cuts. Clint wiped some of the worst blood away with wet rags and tried not to wince at the mess the attackers had made. Bruce's lips were tight and white, but his hands were steady when he sewed the stranger's face together.

Natasha arrived back at the office as Bruce was finishing up the last stitches. She silently handed several vials to Bruce, who consulted the labels before injecting the stranger with carefully measured doses from two of them.

"Will he live?" she asked.

It was the question Clint hadn't dared to ask yet.

Bruce slipped the hypodermics into a sharps container and shrugged. "I don't know. If he doesn't have any internal bleeding that fails to resolve on its own, maybe. He's lost a lot of blood, but it's not critical yet. There's no sign of head injury, but I can't scan him to be sure. We'll have to wait until he wakes up. It looks like someone--probably more than one person--worked him over with their boots before cutting up his face. There aren't any defensive cuts on his hands, so he was probably unconscious, or close to it, when they turned to knives."

"Jesus," Clint said softly.

"How soon can he leave?" Natasha asked.

"Not for a few days, at least," Bruce said.

Natasha's lips tightened. "He's putting us in danger. He can't stay here."

"How about if I promise to look after him and make sure he doesn't see anything?" Clint said. "You heard Bruce, we can't move him yet. As soon as he's well enough, we can send him home."

"This isn't like the time you brought home a puppy," Natasha said. "You can't promise to feed him and clean him and expect that we'll let you keep him."

"I can," Clint said. "Okay, not keep him, obviously, I know that's not going to work." Lucky had been a totally different matter. Men who wore two thousand dollar suits usually had homes to go to, Clint knew that much, even if he hadn't had one until Down Below. "If I promise to make sure nothing bad happens, can we move him to my place? I'll look after him. I mean, how much is he going to see with bandages all over his head, anyway?"

Bruce was massaging the bridge of his nose the way he did when he was getting a headache, or possibly trying not to snap at them. The symptoms were the same.

"We have rules," Bruce said. "You know that as well as anyone else, Clint. Natasha's right. Bringing him here puts everyone in danger." He didn't give Natasha time to say anything, even though she clearly wanted to, from the way her chin went up and her mouth started to open. "But now that he's here, we can't do anything that would hurt him, either. That's another rule, one that we've always kept, because it makes Down Below a safe place for the people living here. You've created a difficult choice for us."

Clint winced. "I'm sorry?"

"I could put it to a vote," Bruce said. "That's what I should do."

A flutter of hope tried to rise in Clint's chest and he squashed it; hope wasn't something that usually worked out for him. "But?"

"I'm not sure it would be productive," Bruce said. "If you two can't agree, then I don't know how we'd get everyone else to agree. And it's my judgement that moving him very far would be worse than letting him stay, for now. If we move him to your room and you make sure that he doesn't see anything beyond it, he can stay until he's well enough to leave."

Clint grinned.

"That's not the same as completely healed." Bruce crossed his arms over his chest. "I agree with Natasha. He's dangerous to us. He can stay until he's able to walk out on his own, but after that, he must leave and you have to make sure he'll never be able to come back."

"I'll put the blindfold on myself and lead him out," Clint said. "Promise. You'll never see him again after he leaves."

Bruce nodded, apparently satisfied, but Natasha shook her head and rolled her eyes.

Clint ignored her. This was totally not like Lucky at all. This stranger was a human, a man who probably had a life of his own and money to go with his expensive suit. It would be easy to let go of him when the time came. Easy.


	3. Chapter 3

Phil's body ached in the dull, fuzzy way he'd learned meant there were some good drugs masking the worst of the pain. He floated for a while, only vaguely aware of the difference between waking and sleeping. Something tugged at the back of his mind, but he was too foggy to pull it out and examine it. Was there a case he was supposed to working on? An appointment he'd missed?

The feeling had that sense of urgency to it, but the details wouldn't come free, and the blanket of exhaustion filling his mind made it impossible to hold onto.

After a while, Phil became aware of a voice. Someone talking quietly in a reassuring way that was threatening to make him fall asleep again. He fought the urge, but he was so tired. Too tired and too sore to stay awake any longer.

***

His face was on fire. Pain scored down it and he whimpered, hurting too much to feel any embarrassment at the sound. A warm voice said something soothing. It sounded a little familiar, as though he'd been hearing it a lot lately, but he couldn't place it.

A sharp scratch on his arm and the pain receded, taking awareness with it.

***

The fire in his face had receded to an ache that wasn't exactly dull, but wasn't the agonising pain it had been before. Phil was aware that it probably meant he was still riding a dose of painkillers, but he didn't care much. It allowed the pain to retreat far enough for his thoughts to have some kind of order, although he didn't have the fuzzy mush feeling that had drowned him on his first awakening. They must be giving him less drugs, then, although they hadn't stopped them.

They?

Phil almost frowned, but a sharp pain stopped him. What the hell happened?

Everything was very quiet. Too quiet. Weren't hospitals usually noisier, with machines that went beep and people talking too loudly in the hallway? There weren't any beeps here. No voices.

If he listened carefully, he could hear metallic tapping. It had an odd rhythm. Not steady, like someone working on metal, but there was a pattern to it nonetheless. Several patterns, he realised after a while, at different distances. He'd never heard anything like it.

Wherever he was, it wasn't a hospital.

On the heels of that thought came a sudden flash of memory: men in ski masks kicking him until he threw up.

His heart sped up and the air in his throat seemed to thicken until he couldn't breathe. When he opened his eyes, he couldn't see, which sent his panic higher. Phil raised his hands and tried to claw at the thick fabric wrapped around his head, thoughts scattering as memory overwhelmed him and his chest tightened. Moving made the pain worse, made everything worse, but he couldn't stop himself. Couldn't get any purchase on the bandages covering his face.

Couldn't breathe or think.

"Hey, hey, don't do that," a voice said. "You'll hurt yourself."

Hands clamped on his wrists and pulled his fingers away from his face. Strong hands he couldn't fight. Phil shouted, straining against the grip, and his attacker--carer?--made an irritated huffing sound and held on with a grip that was tight but not painful.

"Seriously, please stop," the voice said. "I promise, you're safe here. Nobody's going to hurt you, but you need to leave the bandages alone, okay?"

There was a reassuring quality to the voice. An unexpected warmth. It almost sounded familiar. Where had Phil heard it before?

He didn't even realise that he'd stopped struggling until the grip on his wrists loosened. He wasn't released completely, but he could probably break free if he wanted to, and with the panic retreating, he didn't have that urgent run-escape need pounding in his veins.

"Better?" the voice said.

Phil nodded. His mouth was too dry to speak.

"Promise not to start tearing your bandages again?"

Phil nodded again.

"Good. Bru--the guy who stitched you up will kill me if I let you bleed everywhere again."

The hands circling Phil's wrists were gentle as his arms were lowered to the bed.

"Are you thirsty? I'm betting you're thirsty. Hang on and don't try to escape, I'll grab you some water." After a beat, the voice added, "And a straw. Guess that'll help, right?"

Phil traced the sound of footsteps and the rattle of drawers opening, followed by the sharp crack of the seal on a bottle of water breaking.

"Sorry, it's not cold," the voice said as footsteps returned. "I wasn't thinking. Should have got you one from...the place where we keep stuff cold. But it's wet and I'm guessing that right now, wet is more important than cold."

The tip of a straw nudged against Phil's lips and he allowed it in, sucking water down gratefully even though the motion made his face hurt. He drank steadily, feeling better with each swallow, until it was suddenly too much and he had to stop.

The straw retreated immediately. "Guess you were thirsty. You've drunk most of the bottle. Warn me if you're going to be sick, okay? That was a lot of water on an empty stomach."

Phil licked his lips, his tongue catching on the bandage wrapped across his chin. "I'll try."

"Thanks."

"Where am I?"

"Somewhere safe," the voice said.

"Not a hospital?"

"Not a hospital. I wasn't sure we could get you there, so I brought you here."

"Where is here?"

"Um." There was a long pause. "My name's Clint. You're in my place."

Phil frowned and immediately regretted it. "Where is--"

"I'm not going to tell you," Clint said. "I'm sorry. I know you probably hate that and it's not making you trust me, which is fair. You did just get beaten to a pulp and wake up in a strange bed covered in bandages, and now I'm refusing to tell you were you are. I get that. It looks bad."

"It does, yes."

"I promised to make sure you can't find us again after you leave, so I can't tell you where you are."

"That implies that I'll be allowed to leave," Phil said.

"Well, yeah. You thought I'd keep you locked up in here forever?"

The thought hadn't occurred to Phil before that moment, not precisely. Not as a distinct thought, at least.

"Swear on anything you want," Clint said, "you're going to get thrown out the moment anyone thinks you can walk in a straight line. Keeping you here is not going to happen."

Anyone. They. Clint wasn't alone here. Phil filed that away for later.

"Why am I here, then?" he asked. "If you're so eager to make me leave."

"Couldn't leave you out there to bleed to death, and I didn't think an ambulance would get to you in time. This was the least crappy option."

"Oh."

"They dumped you in the shittiest part of the Park. Just in case you thought they were you friends."

"I have no idea who they were." A remnant of the panic tried to resurface, sending Phil's heart racing again. Logically, he knew that he could breathe, but knowing it and feeling it weren't the same thing. His chest tightened and had to fight for breath. "They didn't tell me who they were or what they wanted."

"Hey, dude, no. It's fine, you're safe. Nobody's going to hurt you."

A hand squeezed Phil's, large and warm, and he focused on that sensation. On the feel of skin against his, of warmth and strength. It anchored him and the air moved into his lungs more easily, his pulse slowing to something that didn't pound urgently in his ears.

"You're fine," Clint said again, his voice low and kind. "I've got you. Nobody will hurt you here. They can't even find you here."

"You were here while I was sleeping," Phil said.

"Yeah." Clint sounded embarrassed. "I was reading to you. Figured it might help, you know? I'm not that great at it, but I didn't know what else to do. You were asleep for more than a day."

Snatches of memory were returning, flashes of Clint's voice speaking words that he couldn't quite understand but comforted him anyway.

"Thank you," Phil said.

"Um, yeah." 

The pause, this time, was both awkward and reassuring at once. Phil wondered what Clint looked like, what his tells were when he was embarrassed or uncomfortable. It was clear that Clint didn't know what to do with thanks. Phil didn't need to see him to sense that much.

"So, your face got cut up pretty badly," Clint said after a while. "You've got some epic bruising, too. You're alive, though, so you can't have much internal bleeding and I guess your head is alright, if you're remembering shit already and you sound normal. Think you've got a few cracked ribs. That's why it hurts when you move."

Phil almost lifted a hand to check his face, before remembering that it was wrapped up and he wouldn't be able to feel anything. "Is that why I've got all the bandages?"

"Mostly. We didn't want you to tear anything. You'll probably want to see a surgeon when you get out, anyway. None of us know how to do the prettiest stitching."

"Mostly?"

"I think, maybe, they were hoping you wouldn't see anything if they covered you up."

"Oh."

"Yeah. But not making your face worse was at least ninety percent of it."

"I see." Phil did reach up this time, but only to pat the bandages before settling again. One hand was still being held in Clint's and he was in no hurry to pull away. Huh, how odd. "My name is Phil, by the way."

"I know. I checked your driver's license."

"You went through my pockets?"

"We kind of had to cut your suit off. Sorry. But I saved your wallet and I got curious about who you are. Sorry. Again."

Phil would have frowned, but the memory of how much that hurt stopped him. "Thank you. For saving my wallet. It's a pain to replace everything."

"I guess."

Clint didn't sound certain, as though he'd never had to replace driver's licenses and credit cards before. Phil filed that information away, too.

"Want some more water?" Clint asked.

Phil nodded and Clint helped him to finish the bottle of water. The low chuckle Clint gave when Phil's straw slurped on the last drops put an unexpected warmth in Phil's chest. It was a nice sound. One he wouldn't mind hearing again.

He shook the thought away. "What were you reading to me?"

"It's not fancy literature. You probably read fancy literature, right?"

"Not since college."

"Oh." After a beat, Clint said, "You ever read John le Carré?"

"No," Phil said. "I usually stick to the trashier end of the spy genre."

"Oh," Clint sounded brighter. "A friend gave me his stuff. He's pretty good. Want me to read to you some more?"

"I'd like that a lot," Phil said, and he realised, as pages began to rustle, that he wasn't even lying.

He did miss Clint's hand on his, though.

***

Keeping track of time was impossible with his eyes covered and his body still determined to make him nap whenever his mind got too quiet. Clint's reading voice was particularly good at soothing him into sleep, and Clint didn't seem to mind repeating the last few pages when Phil woke up.

"This shit is complicated," Clint said. "Can't miss bits, or you'll never keep track of the plot."

Trying to estimate the time based on meals was impossible, too. Clint fed him broth a couple of times before graduating to chunky, spicy soups, delivered on some schedule Phil couldn't put together. The naps probably didn't help his attempts to track Clint's movements and habits. He'd heard a sawing snore a couple of times, but more of the soup appeared after, instead of recognisable breakfast food.

Unless Clint only ate soup. That was a thought Phil dismissed after a discussion about the relative merits of burgers versus pizza.

The worst of the aching started to fade from Phil's body, although his face still throbbed too much to be comfortable, and his ribs reminded him sharply every now and again that they'd been abused. Clint was an attentive carer, always there whenever Phil woke up, but he continued refusing to even hint at where they were. Once or twice, Phil thought he heard the distant echo of a subway train. He wasn't sure, though, because it only happened when everything was quiet, even the metallic tapping gone silent, and Phil was on the edge of sleep. It might have been a dream.

It was maybe three or four days later when he woke up alone. Clint had always been there before, even if he was snoring somewhere nearby, but Phil strained his ears and couldn't hear anything. He couldn't feel the presence that had been at the edge of his awareness from the first time he heard Clint's voice.

He really was alone.

For a while, Phil lay where he was, breathing slowly and listening to the faint tapping echoing nearby. He almost thought he could feel the pattern in it now, like a language, but he didn't know what the base for it should be so he couldn't understand it.

The tapping fell silent. Phil continued lying there, counting his breaths and listening for something he couldn't define yet.

After a while, the quiet became unnerving. It was too still. Too empty.

Listening turned to a wary alertness, half-expecting hands to paw at him and waiting for the first impact of a boot against his ribs. His breathing sped up until he was panting, short little inhalations that were too warm and made the bandages near his lips feel soggy and close.

With a gasp, Phil pushed himself upright and tried to stand, swaying uncertainly until he had his balance. Whenever he'd needed to stand before, Clint had been at his side to steady him and lead him through the darkness.

The bandages were suffocating him, too tight against his face and shutting out the light he desperately needed to see. Phil reached back and clawed at the knots holding them in place, uncaring of the pain or the memory of Clint urging him not to do it because he'd hurt himself. That didn't matter. He couldn't breathe.

His fingers were shaking too much to unpick the knot. Phil took a step forward, and another, thinking to find a knife or scissors or _something_ to cut them free, if he could just feel his way far enough around the room. On the third step, he stubbed his toe. It was the surprise, more than the pain, that sent him plunging forward.

He might have fallen and hurt himself even more, but strong arms caught him around the waist and held him up until he could get his feet underneath him again.

"Where were you going?" Clint asked.

Phil straightened and Clint's hands dropped away. He told himself firmly that he didn't miss Clint's touch and he wasn't really relieved to hear Clint's voice again. Missing Clint in any way would be dangerous. 

"I wanted to take these off," he said, hooking a finger under the bottom edge of the bandage. "They're choking me and I can't see."

"Phil, it's not a good--"

"If you don't take them off, I'll keep trying to find a way to do it myself," Phil said. "I can't keep them on."

There was a deep sigh. "They're going to kill me for this."

Phil took a half step back and miraculously didn't trip on anything. "Really?"

"Maybe not actually kill me," Clint said. "Not in the literally dead way. But, you know. They're going to yell at me a lot and then they'll look disappointed, which is almost as bad. They're really good at looking disappointed."

"I think I'm willing to take that chance."

"You might be, but what about me?"

Except, despite those words, he leaned forward and began picking at the knot holding the bandages in place. Phil could feel the warmth from Clint's body and hear the slow inhalations near his ear. It was very distracting.

So distracting that Phil didn't notice Clint was unwinding the bandages until they fell away from his eyes and he had to close them against the sudden light.

"You okay?" Clint said.

"Yes," Phil said, squinting as his eyes teared and stung. "It's bright in here."

Clint chuckled. "It's not that bright. You'll adjust in a minute."

The air was cool against Phil's newly exposed skin. A couple of times, the bandages caught on his wounds, and the sharp tug to free them would have made him wince if he hadn't already been struggling with the light. Clint made sympathetic sounds each time, and Phil tried not to speculate on how bad the cuts looked. He'd never been particularly vain about his looks, that was more Garrett's thing, but he hadn't been a horror show before.

The last bandage fell away and Clint stepped back as Phil's eyes finally adjusted. Everything was a little blurry until he blinked away the tears.

Clint had partially turned away from him, his face hidden under the deep hood of a long, dark robe. Phil frowned and winced as the movement pulled against a healing cut. All he could make out about Clint was that his shoulders were broad and he seemed to be around Phil's height. Even his hands were hidden under long sleeves that were fraying at the cuffs.

"Clint?" Phil said, unsure whether he should move closer. The rigid set to Clint's shoulders hinted that something was wrong, but he didn't know what. "Am I that hideous?"

Clint's head lifted, but the hood still hid his face. "No, you're definitely not hideous. Trust me, I know ugly. In a few weeks, nobody'll be able to tell anything happened."

Phil could feel the way his skin pulled against the stitches, the depth of those cuts, so he knew that Clint was lying to make him feel better. If it was that bad, maybe he didn't want to look.

He couldn't stand not knowing, though. It had always been one of his failings, that incurable need to know, even when he might have been happier to live in ignorant bliss.

"Are there any mirrors here?" he asked.

There was a short pause, before Clint sighed and said, "I'll find one."

He didn't let his hood fall back as he crossed the room to rummage through a tall wooden cabinet. For the first time, Phil looked around the place he'd been brought, and his mouth dropped open.

The step he'd stubbed his toe on led up to a platform lined with bookcases, each stuffed with books arranged in a way that seemed to have more to do with making as many fit as possible than finding something by author or subject. A winding iron staircase at the end led to a gallery that lined two walls high enough that Phil couldn't see what they contained, only the iron railings along them.

The bed he'd been sleeping in was under one of those galleries, tucked into a deep alcove in the wall. It was a mess of blankets, pillows, and duvets that looked as comfortable as it had felt. Phil was amazed he'd crawled out of it blindfolded--he would have rolled straight into a wall if he'd been less lucky.

The main area of the room wasn't large, and the clutter of chairs, low tables, and cabinets should have made it feel cramped, but it felt homey and comfortable instead. Golden light spilled from lamps placed on every available flat surface, light that flickered and made shadows dance. Phil moved closer to a small desk not far away and peered at the lamp.

Under the art deco-style glass shade, a small flame was burning. It was an oil lamp.

"We're still working on running electricity everywhere," Clint said, from closer than Phil had expected.

He turned too fast and wobbled, but Clint caught his arm and steadied him. Again.

Hopefully he'd stop trying to fall over soon, before Clint got tired of picking him up from the floor.

Clint stepped back as soon as Phil was stable, keeping his head down and turned slightly away so that Phil couldn't see under his hood. He held out something small and flat. Fraying fingerless gloves covered his hands, but they didn't hide his nails.

Not nails. Claws. Too sharp and too thick to pass as human nails, even though someone had tried to file them down recently. 

"You wanted a mirror," Clint said.

Phil took it and Clint pulled his hand back immediately, shaking his sleeve down to cover it. He stepped back a couple of steps for good measure.

"You don't have to look," Clint said. "I can put it away."

Phil shook himself, realising that he'd been staring at Clint's arm for longer than he should. Long enough that Clint's shoulders had risen and every line in his body betrayed his tension despite the loose, heavy clothing he tried to disguise himself in.

"I'm sorry," Phil said.

Clint shrugged.

The mirror in Phil's hands was small, held in a wooden frame that was smooth under his fingers. It would be easy to give it back without looking. Just hold it out and pretend not to see the strangeness of Clint's nails when he took it back.

Phil turned it over and raised it, refusing to do anything that clichéd and ridiculous.

The gashes stood out red and raw against his skin. Not gashes, no. Cruel cuts sliced into his face, running the length of one cheek and bisecting his chin. Turning his face into a patchwork of stitches and thick, painful marks. Familiar blue eyes peered out of the mess, but the rest of his face was almost unrecognisable.

Phil had never been a vain man--he knew his faults--but he shrank back from the mirror in horror anyway. Who wouldn't?

"I've seen worse," Clint said.

"That seems hard to believe," Phil said, amazed his voice sounded steady.

He was getting that tight, panicked feeling in his chest again, and he had to force himself to breathe slowly.

"Trust me," Clint said. "When you get home, a good plastic surgeon can probably make it so they're barely visible. You look like the kind of guy who can afford it."

"I'll believe it when I see it."

"Couple of days from now, you'll see it." Clint's voice dripped with bitterness. "You're not exactly a hideous monster that can't show his face, even like that."

Phil lowered the mirror and hugged it against his chest. "I probably can't walk down the street without being noticed like this."

"Maybe. But at least you look human under the needlework."

"What do you mean?" Phil asked.

Clint started to shrug, but he seemed to change his mind. He squared his shoulders. "Want to see something really ugly?"

"It can't be that bad."

Clint's laugh held none of his usual warmth. "Trust me, it can."

Before Phil could protest further, try to reassure him, Clint drew back his hood, and Phil sucked in a sharp breath as he saw Clint's face for the first time.


	4. Chapter 4

Phil wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, preparing for, but it wasn't this. He stared. He couldn't help it. Couldn't look away, even though a part of him worried that he was frightening Clint by staring so hard.

Clint only lifted his chin, as if defying Phil to do something. To run, or scream, or whatever the usual reaction was.

Phil refused to do any of those things. He was better than that, or he liked to think he was.

It was no wonder Clint couldn't walk the streets without attracting attention. His eyes were deep-set and something had happened to his lower face, flattening his nose and turning the area around his mouth into something that looked a little like a muzzle. It was almost cat-like, if cats had human lips that looked like they might smile if Clint ever found anything to laugh about.

His hair was long and shaggy, falling almost to his shoulders. It was probably another attempt to hide his face, if the deep hood he wore ever fell back.

"Told you," Clint said. "You've got nothing to worry about. There's worse out there than a few cuts."

He wasn't ugly. That was the thought running through Phil's mind. Clint wasn't ugly. He was unusual, maybe even inhuman, but he wasn't an ugly man, even if his features had a bestial edge to them.

Clint shuffled his feet and raised a hand to pull his hood back.

"Don't!" Phil said, taking an involuntary step toward him. "Don't, please. I'm not frightened."

"Why?" Clint asked, tilting his head. "Most people are, the first time. And the second, third, and fourth times."

"I don't know, but I'm not. Maybe it's because I know you, a little."

"Oh."

It only took another two steps to close the distance between them. Phil held out the mirror. "You should have this back."

When Clint took it and put it on a desk behind him, he didn't immediately shake his sleeves down over his hands. The nails were definitely claw-like, but he'd filed them down, possibly in an attempt to make them safer.

"What happened?" Phil asked, looking at Clint's face again. He didn't dare reach out to touch, even though a tiny part of him wanted to. "Did it hurt?"

"I was born this way."

"Were you born here?"

Clint shook his head. "No, here came later."

"How?"

"If I tell you that, you'll know where here is," Clint said. He smiled without showing his teeth, barely a curve of his lips. "It's bad enough that I let you see this much. Don't get me in trouble by making me show you the rest."

"How are you planning to get me out of here without showing me?"

"Blindfold." The smile was more genuine this time. "I'll guide you, make sure you don't trip. It'll be great. You'll be home in no time."

"So we're still in New York."

"Aw, Phil. No. Don't guess more. You're too good at it."

Phil smiled, even though it made his face hurt. "Sorry."

"Yeah, you look really sorry." Clint paused before adding, "You've got a nice smile. I didn't know that before."

If Phil's face hadn't been too busy aching, it probably would have been hot. The compliment was real, heart-felt, even though the words were plain and almost accidental.

Under his heavy brows, Clint's eyes were blue, but there were flecks of amber that caught the soft golden light from the lamps. Nobody would see their colour unless they were standing close, like Phil was. Maybe that was why people were usually afraid when they saw his face.

"I should bandage you up again," Clint said. "Keep your cuts from getting infected or whatever."

Phil swallowed. "Do you really have to?"

"Hey, aren't you supposed to be making sure I don't get in trouble? If I let those cuts get infected..."

"I don't mind the bandages," Phil said, "but I don't like the darkness."

"Okay." Clint tilted his head. "Maybe I can do something about that. Ready for some rest?"

Phil wanted to protest that he wasn't, he was fine, but when he turned towards the bed, his legs turned wobbly and he was only saved from falling by Clint's arm around his waist. Again. As Clint helped him back to the bed, Phil told himself that he definitely, completely, absolutely, was not in any way affected by the warm solidity of Clint's body against his.

Definitely.

Nor did he have a surge of warmth in his chest at the way Clint frowned in concentration as he re-bandaged Phil's face. That would be ridiculous.

Clint did do something about the darkness. He didn't create eye holes or leave huge swathes of Phil's face open to the air, but over Phil's eyes, he only wrapped one layer of thin crêpe. Phil could see through it quite easily, but it probably looked solid from the outside. Being able to see helped the fear to stay where it belonged.

"Are you hungry?" Clint asked when he'd finished.

"More soup?"

He must have sounded as fed-up as he felt, because Clint chuckled and said, "I heard there's some pizza around tonight, if you want me to grab some slices."

"Pizza sounds good."

It sounded like heaven, but really, anything that wasn't broth or soup would have sounded good.

"Want me to read some more after?" Clint asked. "'Fraid we don't have cable, so it's my book or nothing."

Phil smiled, even though Clint couldn't see and it made his face hurt. "Your book is just getting to the good part."

***

The whisper of air moving behind him alerted Clint that Natasha was approaching. She was the only one who climbed up to his high spaces. Even the children weren't daring enough to try scaling the places he went to think.

"He sleeping?" she asked, sitting down beside him.

Clint didn't turn, keeping his gaze focused on the bright lights of the city stretching out beneath him. It was comforting, in a way he'd never been able to describe to anyone. Down Below was beautiful in its own way, a good place to live, but it sometimes felt too close around him. Too small, even though the tunnels stretched for miles and reached further with every year.

Up here, with the wind on his face and the lights sprawling out below him, there was peace and life combined.

"He's sleeping," Clint said.

"He'll have to go home soon."

"I know."

Natasha leaned against his shoulder, her red hair tickling his neck in the breeze.

"You like him," she said after a while.

"He seems kind."

"They always seem kind, until they see who we really are."

Clint stayed silent, pressing his lips together. He'd searched Phil's face carefully for the horror that people usually showed. Shock had been there, briefly, but it had been replaced by curiosity and an intent searching, as though Phil was memorising his face. Or maybe looking for something, except that couldn't be it. Nobody ever wanted to see beneath the disfigurements.

Nobody except Bruce. Natasha. The other folks of Down Below. They were different. They were used to looking under the surface. That was the only way to live Down Below.

Natasha stiffened, moving away from his shoulder and frowning, although her tone was gentle. "Oh, Clint."

"What?"

"You've got to be kidding me. Tell me you didn't."

"Okay, I didn't do it." Clint made himself smile and turn to her. There was sympathy in her eyes, almost buried under the fierce glare. "What didn't I do?"

"You know what you did. You showed him your face, didn't you?"

"Um."

Natasha sighed, shaking her head. "What were you thinking?"

"I don't know. That he wasn't like the others?"

"I looked him up. He's a lawyer." Natasha dug her fingers in his forearm. "An expensive lawyer. The kind people hire when they want their problems to go away and they don't care how it happens. Do you know what his type of person does when they find out about people like us?"

"He's different," Clint said. "He didn't run. He didn't scream. He's a good man, I know it."

"Are you really sure about that?"

"I am."

"Have you told Bruce?"

Clint lifted his chin. "Why would I?"

"Maybe because he's the one who put his ass on the line when you brought him in? If this goes to hell, you're not the only one who'll get hurt. Everyone gets hurt. Bruce gets hurt. I get hurt."

"You'll just disappear for a while," Clint said.

She shook her head. "Not this time."

Clint tilted his head. There was something different about Natasha. She'd always been fierce and furious, burying her kindness deep inside, hiding under a mask of dry, distant humour. All of that was still there, but the sharp edges of it weren't there in her eyes anymore.

She cared about something. Someone. She'd stopped running.

"Oh," Clint said, numbly. He'd missed the change. His best friend had done something, and he hadn't been there for it. He didn't even know what the change was. "You're staying for real this time?"

"Yes, I'm staying. And if your new friend fucks this up for us, I'm going to be very unhappy with him."

"He won't."

"I really hope he lives up to your expectations, but you need to get him out of here, before he sees too much. You trust too easily."

***

Clint was deep in thought on the way back to his quarters. He barely noticed the group of small children who said hello as they passed. His smile was vague and one small boy started to remark on it, before being shushed by his friends.

His route took him to the upper entrance to his room, along the low tunnel that everyone except Natasha avoided using. It brought him out at an opening near the ceiling, which allowed him to watch Phil for a couple of minutes without being noticed.

Phil was walking around, his steps slow but steadier than they had been. He was exploring, and Clint found that he didn't mind the way Phil trailed a finger along a desk or tilted his head to look at the books filling the shelves crowded everywhere he could fit them. Phil probably couldn't make out titles through the gauze covering his eyes, but the shape and age of the books would betray how eclectic the collection was. His fingers were reverent as he touched the spines of the oldest books, the poetry and classics that Bruce had given him over the years, and Clint smiled.

Phil knew the worth of a good book, even if the binding wasn't perfect. Maybe Clint was right about him.

A ladder was leaning against one wall, and Phil paused there, his posture betraying his confidence. The light pouring in through a stained glass window high on the wall above Clint's bed caught on a sparkle of glitter on a poster behind the ladder. Even through the gauze, Phil had to be able to see that.

Clint cleared his throat before Phil could do more than lean a little closer.

Phil jumped, spinning around to search for the source of the noise. He almost lost his balance and had to grab for a nearby bookcase to steady himself, and Clint took pity on him.

"Up here," Clint said, waiting for Phil's head to turn towards him before jumping down.

It was probably childish to enjoy the way his cloak flared out as he dropped through the air and take pride in landing lightly on his feet. He could have swung across to the gallery and over the railing easily, trotted down the stairs like a regular guy.

It wouldn't have looked cool, though, or made Phil utter a strangled noise that sounded like he was impressed and worried all at once. The sound sent a flare of warmth through Clint's chest.

Phil didn't stay impressed for long. His shoulders straightened and he gestured around him. "I hope you don't mind. I needed to stretch my legs. You've got a nice collection."

Clint barely hesitated before pushing back the hook of his cloak to allow Phil to see his smile. "It's probably nothing like you're used to, but I like them."

"What I'm used to is a few paperbacks that I never have time to read on a bookcase my decorator assures me is the latest style." Phil shrugged. "It looks like you enjoy your books."

"There's no reason you can't enjoy yours."

Phil's laugh was short, laced with a touch of bitterness. "I think that I've forgotten how to do that."

"It's easy," Clint said. "You open a book and you read it."

"There's always something I need to do. A case I need to review or a motion I need to write. If I'm not doing that, there are events I have to go to. My partner seems to think the firm will die if we don't network with everyone in the city. It doesn't leave a lot of time for enjoying anything."

An image flashed through Clint's mind of an apartment that never looked lived in. A kitchen with empty cupboards and a fridge stocked with bottled water and an expired tub of butter. A bedroom where only the closet and one side of the bed ever looked used, and the cleaner always tidied everything away after Phil left for work.

It seemed like a lonely kind of life. Clint might have had some bad times, but he'd never had a life with that much emptiness.

"Why do you live like that?" he asked.

Phil's head lifted. Clint could imagine the surprised frown under the bandages. He didn't know how he knew it was there, but he was certain.

"I don't know," Phil said after thoughtful pause. "It just...happened."

"You didn't plan on being a hotshot lawyer?" Clint asked, trying to project some humour in his voice.

Phil shrugged. "I thought that I was going to fight for truth and justice. That was the plan when I went to law school."

"So what happened after law school?"

"Paying off my student loans suddenly seemed more important." There was dry humour in his voice, but bitterness lay under it. "Fighting for truth and justice got lost somewhere in the loan payments and making partner."

"So, why don't you change that?" Clint asked. "Go fight for truth and justice. Read the books on your shelves and buy some more when you finish them. All that shit."

The pause this time was so long that Clint started to worry. He couldn't see Phil's face under the bandages; couldn't tell whether he was thinking or whether he'd gone into some kind of fugue state. Clint had done it a couple of times, when everything had become too much and he'd shut down. It hadn't happened for years--not since Bruce brought him to Down Below. He didn't know how to be on the other side of it.

Clint was on the verge of either shaking Phil or running to get Bruce, when Phil seemed to shake himself and straighten up.

"I don't know whether I can," Phil said. "I'm no spring chicken."

"You're not exactly ancient," Clint said. "You can do it."

"You seem very certain."

"I am." Clint bit his lip, before adding, "You're a good man. You should be fighting for truth and justice, not doing whatever hotshot lawyers in tall skyscrapers do. It's never too late."

"Maybe."

"No 'maybe' about it; I know it isn't. You think I always lived here? I did some stupid shit before Br--the guy who brought me here found me. He didn't think it was ever too late to change."

"I might know someone who could get me into the DA's office." Phil's voice was losing its bitter edge. He even sounded hopeful, for the first time since he'd woken up. It was a good note to his voice. "He tried to recruit me a few years ago. Maybe it's time to take him up on the offer."

"Way past time."

"How much longer do you think I'll need to stay here?" Phil's head turned slightly, towards the light filtering in through the stained glass. "You never told me where here is."

The usual responses to Phil's not-very-subtle attempt at finding out where they were rose to Clint's lips. He could give the flippant one--"Nice try!"--or the painfully truthful one--"If I tell you, it puts people in danger"--but none of them fitted the moment. Phil was in the middle of deciding to make a major life change; flippancy wouldn't be right.

And if Clint was sure that Phil was a good man, someone they could trust, then he couldn't claim that people might be hurt. Phil wouldn't betray their presence, Clint knew that with a certainty that was frightening. The sun would always rise, water was wet, and Phil wouldn't tell anyone that they were here.

"This is a sanctuary," Clint said, making up his mind. Natasha would call him terrible names in Russian and threaten to kill him, but this was one thing he knew that he was right about. "People come here when they're lost or frightened and the world above can't help them."

"Above?" Phil nodded. "We're under the city."

"We call it Down Below. Do you want to see some of it?"

"You're sending me home, aren't you?"

"You can walk without falling over. I promised that I'd send you home as soon as you were well enough."

"So you'll give me the tour on the way out?"

"Something like that." Clint grinned and Phil didn't recoil. He really didn't find Clint horrifying. Warmth flared in Clint's chest again and rose up his neck, a disconcerting but not unpleasant sensation. "Ready to lose the bandages and go exploring?"

***

Phil forced himself to hold still while Clint unwrapped his bandages with gentle fingers. Only a few days ago--four? Five?--he'd been unnerved by the darkness and the strange noises around him.

No, not unnerved. Afraid. Terrified. He had to be honest about that much if he was going to make any huge, honest changes in his life. He'd been afraid in the dark. The tapping and distant subway sounds had made his chest tighten and his heart race, because they didn't sound like his familiar world.

Now, the thought of leaving the darkness and the comforting non-rhythm of the distant tapping made his heart race. This was a safe place. A sanctuary, Clint had called it, and Phil didn't have to explore to know why. It was the world above that had hurt him. He'd been taken from a busy street, in front of people who knew what he was.

Down Below he'd found care and safety. Nobody would hurt him here.

The bandages slowly fell away from his eyes and nose, allowing him to see Clint without the haze of gauze in the way. There was a gentleness in Clint's eyes that Phil was going to miss.

He was going to miss a lot of things. Clint's voice reading to him. Clint's solid presence. The wide smile that should have been terrifying, displaying canines that were a little too long, but somehow revealed the humanity in his face instead.

Phil was going to miss Clint as much as he would miss Down Below. Maybe more.

Clint lifted the last length of bandage away from Phil's neck and stepped away, the white strips tangled in his hands. He didn't seem able to meet Phil's eyes.

"We had to trash your suit," Clint said, "but we found something you can wear to get home."

Phil looked down at what he was wearing. The loose brown pants and cotton shirt had been comfortable to rest in, but they were shabby and patched, and it would raise too many questions if he stumbled into a hospital wearing them. Particularly if the hospital went through his wallet and realised who he was and where he came from.

"Check my closet," Clint said, gesturing to a curtain Phil hadn't noticed before. 

It concealed a narrow alcove where a few shirts hung, all in the same cream cotton with fraying hems that Clint always wore. A couple of pairs of boots formed a messy heap in the bottom. A shelf above held a couple of dark, knitted sweaters. Half-concealed at the end, behind the shirts, was a suit. It wasn't the kind of quality Phil usually bought, but it was dark grey and there wasn't a patched or frayed seam in sight. The shirt hanging with it was the wrong shade of blue, but the tie was the right shade of grey, and only Phil would know that it wasn't a suit he would have bought for himself.

"I'll let you change," Clint said. "I'll be right outside if you need anything."

He ducked out through the floor-level door and Phil was left alone to contemplate his unexpected bounty.

It didn't take long to exchange his comfortably worn clothes for the almost new suit. Phil left the collar open and the tie hanging unknotted around his neck. There was a heavy gash on his jaw-line that had pulled uncomfortably when he tried to button the collar. Someone had saved his dress shoes from whatever incinerator they'd tossed his tux into, and they felt stiff and tight when he tied the laces.

Clint was waiting outside as promised. He'd pulled his hood up, but he wasn't hiding inside it. Phil could still see his face, which was more of a relief than it should be.

"Ready?" Clint asked.

Phil shrugged. "Not really, but it's time, isn't it?"

"I guess so." Clint's hand twitched, as though he'd thought about holding it out and changed his mind. "Follow me. I can't show you everything, but we'll try to catch the cool bits on our way, okay?"

"Sounds good to me."

Phil wasn't sure what he expected. Maybe something dark and dank, fitting for their underground location, even though Clint's place had been cozy and filled with golden light. The hallway Clint led him down was made from concrete, with metal pipes lining the ceiling, but it was dry and there were electric lights every few feet.

Clint caught him looking and smiled. "Yeah, we've got power in places. We've got a couple of geniuses who help out by figuring out how to get stuff wired up without letting the power companies know we're down here. We don't have everything connected, but we're working on it."

"Your room isn't on the grid yet?"

"Didn't seem as important as other parts," Clint said. "I'm careful with the lamps. None of the children come to my room, so I don't have to worry about them knocking shit over."

"There are children down here?"

"A few." Clint shrugged. "We get families. We get kids who don't do great in the system. We make sure they're safe and get an education, everything they need to make a choice about where they want to be when they're grown up."

It made sense, in an odd way, but Phil couldn't completely hide his frown. Adults forming a community under the city was one thing, but children...they needed protection and safety.

Clint must have guessed his thoughts. "I know where I'm taking you first."

The tunnels he followed Clint through were mostly man-made, lined with brick or concrete. Metal pipes ran along the ceilings or walls, and Phil realised that they were the source of the metallic tapping he'd heard.

"You use the pipes to communicate?" he asked, as the thought settled.

Clint nodded. "We've got a kid who worked out a whole language and taught it to anyone who'd listen. The pipes are Fitz's baby. He's always building gadgets. Some of them even work."

The stopped at a narrow opening that barely deserved the term "door". Clint had to turn sideways to get in.

"You're not claustrophobic, are you?" he asked from a couple of feet along.

Phil glanced around at the tunnel he'd been walking down, which was low enough that the pipes overhead would have hit his head if he'd been a couple of inches taller. "This wouldn't have been a good time to find out that I am."

"Huh, good point. It's not far and the floor's clean, so you won't trip. Come on."

They emerged into a tiny...space, was the kindest word for it. "Room" would imply an area large enough to take more than three steps across before hitting a wall. It would also imply complete walls, where this space had a half-wall on one side that allowed them to look down on the room below. If anyone looked up, they'd be seen easily, but everyone down there was working industriously.

A man with curly, greying hair sat behind a desk, watching the children scattered on piles of cushions on the floor. A woman with red hair was sitting on a small sofa with a little girl, a book lying across their lap. The girl was frowning as she ran a finger along the page, probably tracing the words as she read out loud.

The children on the floor ranged from a pair of small boys, maybe five years old, to a lanky teenager who might have been a senior in high school. They were all writing in journals, books spread in front of them, apart from the little boys who were drawing on a big sheet of paper. The eclectic mixture of clothes, all a little frayed and patched, announced that they were part of Clint's sanctuary.

A girl who might have been an eighth grader if she'd been in the world above approached the man's desk. His smile was gentle and he listened as she pointed at something in the journal she'd been working in.

Clint stood near enough that his chest brushed Phil's shoulder with every breath he took. Even through the layers of shirt and jacket, Phil was aware of each time they touched with an electric thrill that surprised him. He hadn't been this aware of someone's presence for too long to think about.

It was almost enough to distract him from the sight below. Almost.

Phil had never seen children so intent on their lessons, which was clearly what was happening. The teacher's smile was as bright as his student's when she returned to her cushion hugging her journal against her chest.

"It's science this afternoon," Clint said. "That's Bruce's thing. He's got a lab, but he likes to teach them here when they're not blowing up stuff in beakers."

"Do you teach?"

Clint scratched the back of his head, allowing his hood to fall away. The movement pressed his chest against Phil's arm for a moment, and Phil almost choked. He definitely hadn't felt this kind of electricity from someone's touch for a long, long time.

"I teach English, sort of," Clint said, in an oddly diffident tone. "Mostly I read to the younger kids. I'm not so great at all the themes and symbology stuff the older kids are supposed to know. Nat does that stuff with them."

Phil smiled. "If you read to them the way you did to me, I'm sure they love it."

Clint ducked his head, but Phil caught a shy smile out of the corner of his mouth.

"We should move on," Clint said. "Lots to see before I show you out, and it's getting kind of late."

Phil nodded and followed Clint through the narrow passage, although not before he took one last look at the office. The oldest boy was discussing something earnestly with Bruce in tones too quiet to overhear, while the woman pretended she wasn't watching them from behind a curtain of bright red hair.

As Clint showed him through tunnels and up and down ladders, the size of Down Below took Phil's breath away. He couldn't tell how many people actually lived there, but it was obviously more than just a few outcasts scraping out an existence. It was a community, thriving under the feet of a busy city.

Phil caught glimpses of workshops and living quarters as they walked. He rarely saw the people, but evidence of them was everywhere. Tools set down to return to later, handmade decorations on the walls, the savoury smell of stew as they passed the entrance to a tunnel.

Warm light spilled out of a room filled with shelves of books, and Clint allowed them to stop long enough for Phil to step inside and breathe in the familiar dusty smell. A couple of battered armchairs had been tucked into one corner, and a heap of cushions next to a case of children's books still held the impression of the last body to nestle there.

"It's not exactly the Public Library," Clint said, "but it's better than nothing."

"It's great," Phil said. "Probably more comfortable than the Public Library."

Clint grinned. "They probably don't want to encourage people to curl up and stay."

"True."

Signs of occupation grew rarer as they walked further. They left a concrete-lined tunnel, turning into a passage that still showed the marks of the picks that had dug it, although a pipe ran along the roof and a thick cable connected lamps that Clint flicked on and off as they passed through sections.

"How many people live down here?" Phil asked. 

Clint shrugged. "We don't put trackers on people or take a census. That's not what this place is for. We do have rules. People help each other and we check on people who disappear without notice. Most people are down here because the world above abandoned them or hurt them."

In other words, they knew approximately how many people were down here, if not who they all were, but he wasn't going to tell. Phil could understand why Clint was reluctant. He was a part of the world that had hurt them. It would be hard to trust that he wouldn't tell the authorities about this place if he knew the full extent. There could be hundreds down here. The tunnels stretched for miles.

The thought scattered when Clint grabbed his wrist and pulled him sideways, through an opening that had almost been hidden behind an outcrop of rock. They stepped out into an airy cavern that made Phil gasp.

"We call it the Whispering Gallery," Clint said. "If you close your eyes, you can hear echoes from the world above."

The roof of the cavern soared high overhead, so high Phil couldn't see it. Light filtered down from it, golden dapples filling the cavern with faint illumination. Maybe it even stretched to the world above. When Phil closed his eyes, he thought he heard the faint beep of a car horn under the whispers Clint had promised. 

A chasm split the cavern floor in two and a wooden bridge joined the two sides. Phil stepped close to the edge and peered down, but the bottom of the chasm was lost in darkness. Oil lamps had been hung at the passage entrance and Phil could see the spots of light from matching lamps on the other side. The cavern wasn't a dead end. People were clearly expected to cross the bridge and need light.

"There's a concert hall somewhere up there," Clint said. "If you stand in the right place on the bridge, at the right time, you can hear the music."

"Do you do that often?" Phil asked.

"Depends on what's playing." Clint grinned. "German opera sounds like cats screeching, but some of the violin things are pretty good."

Phil chuckled. "I had to sit through the entire Ring Cycle once. It's a week I'll never get back."

Clint's sympathetic grimace would have been terrifying if Phil didn't know the man underneath.

"Do children really play down here?" Phil asked.

"We can't keep them away," Clint said, "even when we threaten to lock away the story books. They're fascinated by it."

"I can't blame them."

"Neither can I, which is probably why our threats don't work on them."

"Probably."

Phil closed his eyes and listened, trying to pick out words and sounds from the soft whispers filling the air. It would easy to get lost down here, just listening. He could only imagine what it would feel like to have music surround him with that constant soft shush of voices weaving underneath. It would probably be magical.

A pang of disappointment flashed through him at the thought that he wouldn't get to do that. After today, he would never see Clint and his underground world again.

"We should get moving," Clint said after a while.

Phil nodded and followed him out of the cavern. The rocky passage ended in a junction with a brick-lined tunnel, which led into a huge storm drain where Phil had to walk carefully along a ledge that was just wide enough for one. When they had to jump across the water channel, Clint grabbed Phil's hand before he could lose his balance and tumble backwards.

The action pulled Phil flush against Clint's chest and he lost track of time for a moment, caught in Clint's gaze.

He felt slightly shaky when Clint released him and stepped back. They didn't speak, but after they climbed a ladder to a higher tunnel, their shoulders brushed as they walked and Phil wouldn't have minded if Clint had taken his hand.

They walked until Phil was sure he couldn't go any further, but just before he could ask for a break, they passed through a grate that Clint unlocked with a key he probably shouldn't have. A little further on, a sliver of light poured into the tunnel, and Clint stopped beside it.

"This is as far as I can go," he said. "Go through there, follow the hall, and you'll figure out the rest."

"Where are we?"

Clint shrugged. "Somewhere you know. Trust me."

"I do. Trust you, that is." Phil frowned. "I don't know why."

"It's my sparkling personality and good old fashioned American good looks." Clint didn't bother hiding his too-long incisors when he smiled. "I've just got one of those faces."

Phil laughed. "That must be it."

And then it was time. There were no good reasons to delay, no excuses at hand, but Phil couldn't make himself turn away. He wanted to remember Clint, to carve his face into his mind so that he'd never lose it. The gentleness hiding under the shaggy hair and twisted features took his breath away. After today, he would never see Clint again, and that thought made his chest ache.

A few days ago, he'd never dreamed there could be anyone like Clint. He'd assumed he knew everything there was to know about the world and city he lived in.

Phil was trying not to think about what would happen after he left this place. There would be police, and surgeons, and probably some therapy to deal with the nightmares from the attack. All of that felt like a different, darker world. Not one he wanted to rejoin.

Not one he could leave behind, either.

"I'm going to miss you," he said. The words escaped before he could pull them back or second guess himself. But did it matter if he let some honesty escape, when he'd never see Clint again and the words would never return to haunt him? "I've never met anyone like you."

"I'm one of a kind," Clint said, with barely a hint of bitterness.

Phil nodded. "You are that."

Before Clint could look away or pretend that he wasn't unhappy, Phil cupped his jaw. He stroked a thumb over the soft fuzziness of the distorted cheek, watching Clint's eyes widen with surprise.

"I'm glad that I had the chance to meet you," Phil said. "One of a kind isn't bad, in my book."

"I wish that I could ask you to stay," Clint said, speaking so fast the words tumbled over each other. "I would, if it was that easy. Really. We have to stay hidden down here. People depend on it, you know? I have to think about what's best for everyone Down Below, not just what I want. But if it was just me, I'd ask you to stay. Just...so you know."

Phil had to clear his throat before he spoke. "If it wouldn't bring trouble down on you, I might stay. You've build an amazing thing down here."

For a breathless minute, they were caught there, time suspended in a bubble where anything could happen, and maybe nothing would. Where Phil's heartbeat drummed in his ears and his breath came too fast, but he couldn't make himself move. Couldn't make himself leave, but couldn't lean closer, either.

When Clint darted in, Phil had enough time to think "At last" before Clint kissed the breath out of him. It was a hard, desperate kiss that was over too soon. A clash of lips and teeth, too painful to be good and too wanted to be bad. Phil tried to chase after it, to pull Clint back, but Clint was moving away too fast to catch.

The metal grate clanged shut while Phil was still stretching out a hand for him. Clint looked between the bars once, for only a moment, and then he was gone. Phil took a deep, shuddering breath.

It was better this way. No promises. No second thoughts.

He imagined he could feel the ghost of Clint's lips against his as he climbed through a hole in the wall into a hallway that looked strangely familiar. Phil understood why as he passed the door to the storage rooms under his apartment building a minute later. There had never been a good reason to explore further, so he'd never found the crumbling brick before. The hall always looked dark and forbidding; probably none of the other residents had thought to explore, either.

Phil cast one last glance over his shoulder. If he closed his eyes, he thought he could feel Clint standing there, just behind him, but that was only his imagination. Clint was where he belonged and Phil was on his way back to where he should be.

Aching with every step, Phil trudged to the stairs and climbed upward.

***

Clint flopped down on his bed. It still smelled like Phil, which was comforting and torturous at the same time. He didn't notice Natasha arrive until she spoke.

"You sent him back, then," she said.

Clint nodded.

"It's for the best."

He opened his eyes and turned his head, finding Natasha sitting on his desk. "I know. It still hurts."

"That will fade."

"What if it doesn't?" Clint swallowed. "I can feel him, Nat. Out there. He's sad and afraid."

Natasha frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know. I can just...feel him."

"Do you want to tell Bruce?"

"No, but you're going to make me anyway, aren't you?"

"Only if it becomes a problem." Natasha's smile was small and didn't reach her eyes. "Maybe this will go away, too, if you let him go."

"Maybe."

Clint tried to feel reassured, but he wasn't. Phil was out there somewhere, hurting, and Clint couldn't do anything to ease the pain.

For now.


	5. Chapter 5

Phil straightened his tie, frowning at the mirror. It didn't matter how many times he tied and retied it, the knot never looked right. Letting out a small sigh of exasperation, he pulled it free and dropped the crumpled fabric in the laundry hamper before pulling out another.

Maybe black with a subtle blue stripe would feel better than black with a subtle red stripe.

If he was honest with himself, the tie wasn't the problem. It was simply easier to focus on the tie, rather than all the other parts of his life that were making him feel uncomfortable in his skin.

It had been six months since he'd left Clint in the shadows under his building. Six months of surgeries, therapy, more surgery. Of talking to police and watching every lead dry up. Of jumping whenever he was outside after dark, not trusting cabs unless he was with someone, and wondering when the men with knives would be back.

Six months of trying to reshape his life into something that made him feel less hollow inside.

Sometimes he wasn't sure which had been worse: the arguments with Garrett when he announced that he was leaving the firm, or the surgeries to make his face look less like something out of a horror film. If he tilted his head and looked hard, the scar running down beside his ear and under his jaw still looked pink and new. The surgeons had done miracles, but that one had defeated them.

They'd jokingly suggested he grow his hair to cover it, but his receding hairline had made everything more difficult for them, so they weren't serious. Hiding scars in his hairline would have been much easier if it hadn't been retreating.

Phil tugged the knot on his tie into place and appraised it. For a wonder, it actually looked right. Not too big, not too small, not crooked.

He smiled at his reflection. At least he wouldn't terrify anyone on his first day in a new job.

His first day in his new life.

Clint would be pleased that Phil had taken his advice. There were books on his shelves with scuffed corners and imperfect spines. His fridge contained real food. He'd subscribed to Netflix and dusted off his television.

This was the last part of the plan. Phil pulled on his jacket, picked up a briefcase that rattled with only a book inside, and set out to begin working for truth and justice.

***

The DA's office was as far from his old law firm's buildings as imaginable. No magnificent view, no gold and chrome finishings, no heavy wooden furniture. Everything was worn and shabby around the edges here, and the windows looked out over a busy street that would be noisy and smelly if anyone needed to open them. Phil hoped the air conditioning didn't fail in the summer, because the building promised to be uncomfortable if they had to keep windows closed.

He waited on the chair he'd been pointed to when he arrived, watching the people walking past him. Although many of them carried thick files and looked like they could use another two hours of sleep, there was a sense of camaraderie in the way they greeted each other that Phil hadn't even realised he missed. They were all here to battle through another day of making justice work, and they were going to get through it together.

Occasionally, someone shot Phil a curious glance, but nobody stared. Phil smiled and nodded politely whenever it happened, receiving answering smiles in return or the odd confused frown. He put it down to the expensive suit he'd chosen; most of the people who sat here probably didn't wear anything that couldn't be bought off a rack.

Maybe he'd over-dressed a little. It was nerves. Tomorrow he'd fit in better.

It wasn't his first visit to the DA's office, but it was a long time since he'd been here without a client in tow and at least one junior associate at his heels. Not since his days of being the junior associate. If anyone recognised him, they weren't making it obvious. The last couple of times he'd been here, he'd been heavily bandaged, and Garrett had played guard dog to make sure nobody approached him who wasn't important to his case.

A door banged open and Phil straightened as he saw his new boss striding towards him. Nick Fury had always had an instinct for the dramatic entrance and twenty years hadn't changed that about him. It hadn't persuaded him to give up the all black ensembles, either. His suit was probably almost as expensive as Phil's, which made Phil feel a little better about his choice.

"Phil!" Fury's sharp smile was more terrifying now that he had an eyepatch, but he held out his hand to shake in a friendly way. "So, we finally lured you away from the dark side."

Phil stood and took his hand, trying to wince at the strength of the grip. "It wasn't really the dark side. A little off-white, maybe."

"You kicked a few of my guys around the courtroom over the years," Fury said, releasing his hand. "That's dark."

"Hopefully there's no hard feelings."

"Now that we've got you on our side?" Fury shrugged. "You might want to avoid Blake for a while. He's still smarting over the Rojas case."

"I'll try to remember that."

"You've got an appointment with HR to sign paperwork, but I volunteered to show you around first." At Phil's raised eyebrows, Fury added, "Privileges of being the boss."

"I thought showing the new guy around was usually drudge work dumped on overworked juniors."

"I'll hand you to the overworked junior later, but it's not often that I get to show old friends around after they've jumped ship to the white hats."

Phil sighed. "You're not going to let that go, are you?"

"Not for a long time."

Fury led the way to his office first, walking fast with the assurance of someone who knows that other people will jump out of his way. The offices they passed were busy, desks teetering with files, and the blinds were already down on the conference room windows. Working for the DA wasn't going to be restful, but somehow Phil could feel his shoulders relaxing, anyway.

He wasn't surprised when Fury closed the door and gestured Phil to sit down opposite him.

"I heard about what happened," Fury said, his eye straying for the first time to the scar by Phil's ear. "The case has stalled."

"I know."

"We'll probably never find the men who did that to you."

Phil nodded. "I know."

"You won't be able to access any of the files on your case."

"I anticipated that." Phil shrugged. "I'm not here on a vigilante mission, if that's what you're worried about."

"Good." Fury frowned. "Why are you here? I'm not going to lie, quitting your firm and coming here just after you were attacked raised some flags. People were nervous. You wouldn't be the first person who thought they could solve their own cases from inside the system, and it never turns out well for them. I don't want to see you go down that route."

"I won't," Phil said. "I'm not here for that."

"Then why?"

"I realised that I didn't know what I was doing anymore. I wasn't practicing the kind of law that I went into this for, and I wanted to change that."

Fury's eyebrow rose. "An idealist? That's dangerous."

Phil smiled tightly. "It's less dangerous than a cynic."

"That depends on the cynic." Fury nodded. "Try not to burn out fighting whatever crusade for justice you're on. You won't win everything."

"I know, but I can try to win something that means more than another rich man getting richer while someone else gets poorer."

"You're not hurting, yourself."

"So you'll never need to worry that I'm taking bribes."

"I wouldn't have worried about that, anyway." Fury's smile as he stood was brief, but reassuring. "Welcome to the team. I'll show you to your office. It's about the size of a closet, but it's all yours."

"A closet?" Phil asked, as they left the office.

Fury rolled his eye. "Shut up."

The office really was tiny, barely large enough for the desk and stack of file boxes someone had shoved into it. A young woman was sitting at his desk, typing on his computer. She looked up as Phil pushed the door open, flashing him a bright smile.

"Almost done," she said. "Fury told me to give you the five star treatment. I even unblocked Netflix, in case you want to chill during your lunch break."

"I don't recall telling you to unblock anything," Fury said, leaning in as Phil squeezed into the room. "Did I?"

The woman's grin turned sheepish. "Um, no? Surprise? Want me to undo that?"

"Do the same for my computer and I'll forget all about it," Fury said.

"Sure thing."

Fury shook his head. "Phil, meet Daisy Johnson, IT specialist and researcher. If you need something in electronic records, she's the best person for the job. Daisy, our new ADA, Phil Coulson."

Daisy grinned. "You almost sounded like you know what I do."

"Get out of here," Fury said.

"Going." Daisy scrambled past the desk and out of the door. "See you around!"

"She seems nice," Phil said.

"She's a pain in the ass, but she's too good at her job to fire." Fury pointed at the desk. "That's your territory. HR will send someone down in five minutes. I've assigned one of those overworked juniors to be your second chair for now. You'll be taking over a few cases from the last guy who had this office, and he's familiar with them. You might know him. He worked at your old place for a few weeks before he jumped ship, too. Grant Ward."

Phil shook his head. "I don't recognise the name, but I haven't been back since...uh, since I left the hospital."

"He might have been there while you were being treated."

"What's he like?"

Fury sighed. "Try to knock some human into him, okay? He's going to be a fine lawyer, but he hasn't learned how to be a real boy yet."

That didn't sound promising, but Phil smiled. "I'll do my best."

"Thanks." Fury glanced down the hallway. "I see HR incoming. Good luck."

He was gone before Phil could call him back, and the HR rep popped her head around the door a moment later. Her smile was the kind of forced brightness that signalled someone was having a bad day, so Phil did his best not to make the day worse for her.

***

Phil was tired by the end of the day, but it was the weariness of a day working hard, not the dull nothingness of recuperation from surgery. For the first time in more years than he wanted to calculate, the thought of what he'd done all day was satisfying, even pleasant. The nagging hollow in his gut was gone, replaced by the warmth of doing a good job.

Clint had been right. He had been miserable in his old life, and even though his new one promised to be busy, it wasn't going to eat away at his soul.

Sometimes Phil wondered why his thoughts turned to Clint so often. He couldn't remember a day when he hadn't thought about the world beneath his feet, and the man who'd saved his life.

When he hadn't wanted to tell Clint about something he'd seen or heard that day.

When he hadn't replayed their kiss in his head.

No matter how many times he told himself to get over it, Phil couldn't get Clint out of his head.

He was doing it again. Phil shook himself and forced the image of Clint away. The building he'd been standing in front of for the last five minutes was shabby and tired, paint peeling from the door and window frames. Every building on this street had the same worn façade. It was a mile away from the gym he'd used before, in its bright modern building in the middle of Manhattan.

This place had character. A slightly scary character, if Phil was honest.

He squared his shoulders and pushed the door open. The room inside was dimly lit and the scent of old sweat and cleaning products immediately drowned Phil's senses. He sneezed.

"Hello?" a deep voice rumbled from a far corner.

Phil took a careful breath. Too late to run now. "Hello. I called about self-defence training?"

"Hold on." 

There was a quiet clang from the corner, metal on metal, and the soft sound of muffled swearing. Phil bit down on the instinct to ask whether everything was okay. In his experience, that only made him feel more frustrated by whatever he was swearing at.

The man who emerged from the shadowed corner was big. Tall, muscular, shoulders that were even wider than Clint's. He probably didn't need to know self-defence, because nobody would be foolish enough to look at him and decide to take him on. He was wiping his hands on a rag that he stuffed in a pocket of his jeans as he approached Phil. His sleeveless shirt had a black mark running across the abdomen and it showed off all those muscles beautifully.

How had Clint, in his enveloping shirt and cloak, been more appealing than all those beautifully smooth muscles?

The man held out his hand and Phil took it, relieved when the grip was firm but not an attempt to crush him.

"You must be Coulson," the man said. "Mack. You talked to Bobbi, right?"

"I think so," Phil said, releasing Mack's hand. "She told me to come by after work, and her self-defence instructor would assess me. That's you?"

"That's me," Mack said. "Self-defence and repairs. So, what do you need?"

Phil shrugged. "Self-defence."

"I got that. I meant, what happened? Someone grabbed you, mugged you, stole your phone and wallet?"

"I was kidnapped, cut up with a knife, and left to bleed out. I'd like to not do that again."

Mack's eyes widened. "I get why Bobbi sent you to me."

"You specialise in my situation?"

"You're not a candidate for her class." Mack frowned. "She mostly teaches women how to get away from creeps. You're a special case."

"I won't be falling for the same trick they used again," Phil said. "I shouldn't have fallen for it the first time. It turned out that the cab I'd got into wasn't really a cab."

"Hey, nobody expects their cab driver to be a knife-wielding maniac."

"Several maniacs."

Mack whistled. "What are you into, man?"

"Nothing special," Phil said. "I'm working for the DA's office. I was a partner in my own firm when it happened."

"Nobody sends a group after a guy for nothing." Mack shook his head. "It's your own business. You're paying me to teach you how to stop it happening again. Can't promise anything, but I'll show you how to make someone hurt before they can do it again. Deal?"

"Deal." Phil looked around the gym. "Is there somewhere I can change?"

Mack raised his eyebrows. "Why? You planning to get attacked wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt the next time?"

Phil shook his head.

"First lesson of self-defence," Mack said. "Use what you've got. If you're going to be wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase, that's what you learn with."

Phil smiled. "I hadn't thought of it that way."

"Time to start."

"What's the second rule?"

"If you've got an opening, run. Don't stop. Never look back. Run. What I'm going to teach you is how to make that opening."

"Use what you've got. Run. Anything else?"

"Show me the soles of your shoes."

Phil was slightly proud that he was able to stand on one foot without wobbling, until Mack made a dubious sound.

"What's wrong?"

"Third rule: never wear shoes you can't run in. Those look pretty, but you're going to slide the moment you hit a corner."

"Oh." Phil sighed, thinking of the array of dress shoes lined up in his closet, all with smooth soles. "I liked these shoes."

"Get them resoled, if you like them that much." Mack grinned. "The woman who taught me had a rule. There are no dirty tricks, only ones that work. Don't be afraid to knee someone in the balls or gouge out an eye or two. My teacher once took out a guy with a stapler."

"She sounds scary."

"She is." Mack gestured to a stack of mats by the wall. "Ready to start?"

***

Phil ached everywhere by the time he left the gym, but for the first time in six months, he didn't have the urge to hunch his shoulders every time he passed an idling cab. The shadows were only shadows. He was no ninja assassin, but Mack had shown him a couple of tricks and drilled him until they both hurt, and it felt good. If someone grabbed him tonight, he stood a small chance of running.

Or at least, running until his shoes betrayed him on a corner.

If he kept working with Mack, he might make someone hurt before he ran for his life.


	6. Chapter 6

From his vantage point crouching on the roof opposite Phil's apartment building, Clint watched him walk quickly to the door and counted under his breath until the lights turned on in Phil's window. He didn't do this every night, but it relieved a tight ache in his chest to come here every few days and reassure himself that Phil was safe.

Sometimes, he could feel fear and panic rising, and he knew it wasn't his.

Today he hadn't felt anything, but he'd come here anyway. It had been the absence of worry that had drawn him.

There was something different in Phil's walk. A confidence that Clint hadn't seen before. Not a swagger, not quite, but his shoulders looked looser and he held his head higher. It was a good look for him.

Clint had often wondered what Phil was like before the attack. Maybe this was a hint of that man; the one who didn't look over his shoulder and startle at shadows. If it was, then Clint liked that change. It made his head hurt less if Phil wasn't afraid.

He was starting to suspect the tight ache in his chest would never go away, not entirely. It was an ache of missing something he would never have.

The sheers in front of the French doors in Phil's apartment blurred details, but Clint could make out shapes. He'd learned the curve of Phil's shoulders and the way he tilted his head when he was reading.

Counting under his breath again, Clint waited. His reward came after less than two minutes; Phil threw open his French doors and strode out onto the balcony, where he leaned against the railing and stared out at the city. Clint didn't know whether Phil knew he was here, watching, but he liked to think that maybe Phil sensed something.

That maybe he was looking out at the city, searching for a sign of Clint, the way Clint watched for him.

Clint didn't hear Natasha's footsteps, but he sensed her approach, so he didn't jump when she spoke.

"You know, it's called stalking in most places," she said, a hint of amusement taking the sting out of the words.

"I was just making sure he's okay."

Natasha sat down and leaned against his arm, a comforting weight that grounded him in a way only Phil had. "He's fine, Clint. He's doing well at the DA's office. I watched him in court today. He won both his cases."

Clint could help smiling. "I knew he'd do it."

"That's what you said the last twenty times we talked about him." Her elbow was sharp against his ribs. "Which is every time we've talked, in case you lost count."

"It is not every time."

Natasha made an undignified sound. "Whatever you want to believe."

"He looks happier," Clint said. "I guess today went well."

"Does that mean you'll stop stalking him now?"

Clint shrugged, and Natasha rolled her eyes.

"Come on," she said. "Time to say goodnight. Rogers brought the plans and Bruce wants us all to look at them."

Clint took one last, long look down at the balcony, where Phil was still staring out at the city. In a few minutes, he'd go inside to fetch a blanket and a book, and then curl up on the wicker couch he'd installed out there two weeks after his first surgery. He'd get chilled later and make cocoa, but he'd stay outside, reading on the balcony, until he was nodding over the book and in danger of falling asleep. He'd slept out there a couple of times in the summer.

Clint had only climbed up and covered Phil with a blanket once. Maybe twice.

Phil turned away from the railing and went inside, leaving the doors ajar. Clint sighed and stood, telling himself this was the last time.

Just like he'd told himself this was the last time so many times before.

***

Bruce's office was filled with people arguing when Clint and Natasha slipped in. It looked like representatives from every family--made and blood--had descended on the room, and everyone was talking at once. Steve and Bruce stood on either side of Bruce's desk, shouting too loudly for either of them to have any chance of hearing the other. Clint hadn't seen them argue like that since Steve announced he wanted to return to the world above and find a new kind of life. Steve was still wearing his dress pants and good shoes, but he'd pulled a ragged old shirt and coat on over top, the seams straining over the muscles he'd grown since he left.

Fitz and Simmons were sitting beside each other on the lower steps of the winding iron staircase up to the gallery. They were resting their chins on their hands, matching expressions somewhere between fascinating and worry. It was no wonder so many people assumed they were brother and sister.

Or possibly some form of gestalt being. Clint had heard that rumour among the children only last week.

The focus of the arguments was easy to figure out. Building plans were spread out across Bruce's desk and Steve repeatedly jabbed at them to punctuate his words. The plans were mixed in with maps that Clint recognised. He'd drawn some of those maps, with Steve's help.

"Have they been doing this all night?" he asked Natasha, keeping his voice low.

"Ever since Rogers arrived with the plans," Natasha said. "I was hoping they'd be past this stage by now."

"They look like they've still got a lot to say."

"Everyone has a lot to say right now, even if they're not actually communicating anything."

Clint chuckled, but quickly sobered, before anyone could catch him. This wasn't a laughing matter.

"We can't pretend this isn't happening!" Steve said, jabbing at the plans again. "We can't bury our heads in the ground. It's happening and it's happening soon."

"What's happening?" The room went silent and Clint's neck itched as everyone turned to him. "What did I do?"

Steve's smile looked painful and fake when he turned. "Nothing, yet."

Clint considered flipping him off, but there were children peering down from between the railings of the gallery, and he wasn't entirely sure Fitz and Simmons didn't fall under the heading of "young, easily influenced", too. Bruce had strong feelings about passing on bad habits, even though Clint would have argued that he was a walking bad habit and nobody seemed interested in cancelling his Thursday night reading sessions. 

"It's the tower," Bruce said, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "Steve brought the plans."

"It's as bad as we thought?"

Bruce sighed. "Apparently it's much worse."

Steve pointed at one of the plans. "It's not just one tower. They're proposing an entire complex, covering multiple blocks. I can't even tell what half of it is going to be for, but the plans are extensive and they're going to need to dig deep, with all the proposed underground levels."

Clint nodded. "We knew they were doing something. They're buying up everything that's for sale."

"And everything that's not," Bruce said. "I'm hearing some things."

Steve looked grim. "Sam got an offer on his centre from Insight Construction last week. He turned it down, but he's right in the middle of it. They can't build without his land, and they don't seem like the kind of guys who take no for an answer."

"How bad is this for us?" Clint asked. "We can abandon some tunnels, close them down and bug out. We've done it before."

"This is more extensive than anything we've seen before," Steve said.

"The whispering gallery," Bruce said. "The library. Half the living quarters, at least."

Clint swallowed. "The whispering gallery? What about the concert hall?"

Fitz cleared his throat. "They're considering an offer. I helped one of the stagehands to rig up a--" He broke off with a quick glance at Simmons, who was looking far too innocent for her own good. "Anyway, the point is, they've had an offer."

Whatever Fitz had been working on was probably something Bruce would disapprove of, which meant it was something dangerous to either Fitz or his stagehand friend, and Clint made a mental note to ask about it later. Sometimes, Fitz's worst inventions were too fun to miss, even if they came with a user advisory warning.

It wasn't like Bruce had any grounds for complaint. He'd cooked up some weird, dangerous shit over the years, trying to solve a mystery he refused to explain to Clint, but that never seemed to matter. Bruce hated seeing any of the kids he'd helped get hurt.

"It's not just our problem," Natasha said quietly. "They're buying out people whether they want to be bought or not. They're threatening people. Most of the people they're forcing out can't find other places to go to. They have to leave their neighbourhoods and their friends, leave everything they know, and start over again with nothing."

"There has to be something we can do," Clint said.

Steve shook his head, the new lines around his mouth making him look years older than he should. "They've got good lawyers. Planning permission is going through faster than it should, and there isn't a damn thing I can do to stop it. I haven't got any more power up there than you guys."

"We could get our own lawyers," Clint said. "We can't lose everything."

"We won't," Bruce said, sounding wearier than Clint had ever heard him. "We can't fight on their turf, but we'll rebuild. It's the people who make this place, not the tunnels and the galleries." 

Clint wanted to believe the sentiment, but it was hard. This was the first place he'd ever felt safe. The whispering gallery was where he went when he needed time to think. It was where he pictured when he thought of home: sitting on the bridge across the chasm, letting the sounds of the world above filter down and wrap around him. Absorbing the music and the warmth that came with it.

Around him, the uncertain, worried frowns echoed the fear in his heart. The world down here was a safe haven for so many people. They could move, maybe, but would they ever feel safe if they had to live with the expectation that they could be forced to abandon their homes again and again? If they had to let the people in the demolition zone fend for themselves, abandoned as surely as the people down here had been?

Clint pressed his lips tight on a growl that tried to rise in his chest. He wasn't going to allow this to happen. They needed help. They needed a good man who knew the law; who knew Down Below and how important it was. Who had a new-found zeal for justice.

And Clint knew exactly where to find that man.


	7. Chapter 7

Phil woke out of a deep sleep. His brain felt foggy and slow, but there was a nagging feeling at the back of his mind. A sense that something was wrong.

No, not wrong. Different. Something had woken him.

It barely seemed like any time had passed since he'd lain down, exhausted from a long day but satisfied in a way he hadn't been for years. Barely any time, but the clock on his nightstand showed that it was early morning. Dawn would come soon.

A tapping sound caught Phil's attention. He frowned. It was coming from the living room. Had he forgotten to close the French doors again?

Would he have to spend the remaining hours of the night trying to catch a pigeon?

His body protested at leaving the warm comfort of his bed, but Phil forced himself up. He grabbed a sweatshirt and yanked it on over his t-shirt and sweats. Pigeons were best caught with as little skin showing as possible.

Picking up the heavy flashlight from his nightstand was a last minute thought. Maybe it wasn't a pigeon. Mack's advice about using what was available echoed through his mind. Phil had considered buying a gun, but he'd seen the stats. People were more likely to be killed with their own gun than shoot the intruder, and Phil wasn't foolish enough to think he had the skill to avoid becoming another statistic.

The flashlight was better suited to what Mack was teaching him.

Moving as silently as he could, Phil eased the door open and peered out into the living area. The sheers flapping in the wind caught his eye first. He'd been really sure that he'd closed the French doors, but maybe he'd been more tired than he thought.

Something moved in the shadows, and Phil tensed. It was too big to be a pigeon.

There was something familiar about it, though. A sense of recognition that kept him from slamming the door. The shape moved out of the shadows and resolved into man with broad shoulders and a cloak that hid his face.

Clint.

Phil let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. At the sound, Clint turned his head. His face was still hidden in the shadows of his hood, but Phil knew that Clint was smiling. He didn't know how he knew, but the certainty of it was undeniable, like a fact written into his bones.

Clint was smiling, and Phil was smiling, and a weight on Phil's chest that he'd learned to ignore melted away.

He didn't intend to drop the flashlight and walk across the room. He didn't remember doing it, making a choice, but somehow he was in Clint's arms anyway.

Phil breathed in the familiar scent and held on with all his strength. He felt like his ribs would break from the force of Clint's hug, but he couldn't--wouldn't--protest. Clint's breath was warm against his neck, irregular, and Phil was grateful for every sign that this meeting meant as much to Clint as it did to him.

The moment lasted forever and was over in a heartbeat.

Phil slowly pulled back as Clint's arms loosened slightly. He wanted to stay right where he was, wrapped up in Clint, but sense started to intrude. Clint was here.

Clint, who lived Down Below and had no good reason to come to the world up here.

Clint, who had insisted so many times that he wasn't supposed to be friendly or give away the secrets of his world. That after Phil left, they would never see each other again.

"What happened?" Phil asked.

"How do you know something happened?" Clint asked, his voice sounding scratchy. "Maybe I just missed you."

Phil snorted. "That's flattering, but I know you're lying."

"I'm not lying!" Clint said. "I did miss you."

"And? You wouldn't put everyone in danger just to visit me." Phil smiled wryly. "Your friends would give you one of those disappointed looks you hate so much."

Clint paused before he answered, and his voice sounded thick when he spoke. "You remembered."

"I remembered everything."

"I figured you would have forgotten everything when you got home." Clint made an odd sound at the back of his throat. "I like your face."

Phil barely restrained himself from reaching up to touch the scar by his ear. "Thank you."

"Not that you didn't have a good face before, and not that you wouldn't have had a great face without surgery, but...you have a good face. I like it."

"I had good surgeons." Phil could feel his skin and ears heating. Hopefully the moonlight hid the blush. "I told them to put me back the way I was."

"I like it."

"You've mentioned that a couple of times."

"Um, yeah."

Phil waited, and when Clint didn't seem inclined to speak, he said, "I'd like to see your face again, if you don't mind."

Clint touched the edge of his hood, as if only now remembering that it was there. He didn't push it back.

"Are you sure?" Clint said. "You don't have to."

"I want to." Phil reached up, but didn't touch the hood. Not yet. Not without permission. "I'd like to see if I remembered you correctly."

"Most people hope they don't remember right. I'm not exactly a thing people dream about, unless they're having nightmares."

"I'm not most people."

"Yeah, I guess you're not."

Clint lowered his head slightly, and Phil took that as his cue. He pushed the hood back slowly, giving Clint plenty of time to change his mind, but Clint didn't. His head was bowed and his hair looked shaggier than ever when his hood dropped to his shoulders. Phil brushed the untidy mass back so that he could see Clint's face. 

The moonlight created sharp planes and harsh shadows that had been softer in the lamplight of Down Below, but it was still the face Phil remembered. The one that he'd thought of too many times to count and that had haunted his dreams. Clint lifted his eyes when Phil cupped his jaw.

"You're not afraid of me yet," Clint said.

"I keep imagining you reading to the children in that library," Phil said. "It's hard to be afraid when that mental image won't go away."

"You have a mental image?" Clint's smile was bright and warm, but it slid away quickly, replaced with a sick unhappiness. "The library. The whispering gallery. That's why I'm here."

"What?" It took a moment for the words to make sense. Phil had been lost in the warmth of Clint's smile and the way his skin moved under Phil's fingers. "What happened?"

Clint stepped back, out of touching range, and Phil allowed his hand to fall.

"The tunnels," Clint said. "Some huge mega-corporation has bought up a couple of city blocks and they're going to build a big...thing. Towers and shit. They're going to dig deep to do it, three floors of underground parking, and I don't know what else. Even Steve can't figure out what half of it is, and he's good at the architecture stuff."

"I don't understand."

"They're going to dig up half the tunnels. We've got to bug out."

A cold lump settled in the base of Phil's stomach. "The whispering gallery. The library. They're going to be demolished."

Clint nodded. "We can move. If we have enough time, we can pack up everything and make it look like we were never there. We've got people who can help us to hide everything again."

"You'll have to start over."

"We've done it before," Clint said. "Most of us started over when we found Down Below. But the whispering gallery, it's special. And the concert hall will be torn down. It's been there for nearly a century."

"What about the people living above ground?"

"We're hearing stuff. They're being threatened. Given offers to sell and not getting a choice about it, you know?"

"I know. I've seen these kinds of plans before."

"We can't stop them." Clint paced the length of Phil's living room. "We have helpers in your world. They've been trying to figure out who's behind this and how to stop them, but they can't. It's a company owned by another company, all layered around each other like Russian dolls, and we can't find the little doll. They've got people in their pockets who are just passing all this shit through committees, and we can't fight that. My people can rebuild, but the other people that are being forced out have nothing. Nowhere to go, no way to rebuild what's being taken away."

"And they're going to destroy the whispering gallery," Phil said.

Clint stopped moving, his shoulders rising as though he wanted to protest, but they dropped after a long pause. "And they're going to destroy the whispering gallery."

"How can I help?"

It didn't even occur to Phil not to offer. Clint needed something and Phil needed to give it, if it was in his power.

With the moonlight bathing his face and the breeze ruffling his hair, Clint was magnificent. Kind and fierce, beautiful and terrible. In that moment, Phil wanted to give him the earth. Wanted to promise him anything he needed, if it would take away the distress hunching his shoulders and haunting the depths of his eyes.

"How do we find out who's doing this?" Clint asked. "Do you have any contacts in the Department of City Planning who can figure out what's happening?"

Phil pursed his lips, thinking hard. It had been over six months since he'd had any contact with his old clients, but Garrett might know something. A couple of his accounts were big contracting companies, or they had been the last time Phil saw the books. Unless he'd lost a lot of business over the last six months, Garrett might be exactly the person to know.

"Do you have a name I can start with?" Phil asked.

"Insight Construction," Clint said.

"I'll see what I can do." Phil frowned as another thought came to him. "Have any of the people being harassed reported it to the police?"

"I don't know. Maybe?"

"If they have, I can find out." Daisy would surely know how to find the reports. Phil had only talked to her a couple of times, asking her for reports connected to his cases, but she seemed to be able to make the creaking databases spit out information he would haven't expected her to find. "Maybe they'll have reported something that will give us some clues."

"Maybe."

"If there's anything that I can find for you," Phil said, "I will. Trust me."

"I do trust you," Clint said, a note of surprise in his voice. "Natasha thinks that I'm crazy, but I do trust you."

A hot wave of something that might have been jealousy, if Phil was the kind of man who allowed himself to feel that kind of feeling, spiked through Phil's chest. He kept his voice even when he asked, "Who's Natasha?"

"A friend," Clint said.

"One of the ones who gives you disappointed looks?"

"Hers are more irritated, with a bit of eye-rolling. She swears at me in Russian and complains to Bruce about me where I can hear her."

"She sounds...ah..."

"Yeah, she's very 'ah'," Clint said. "She's my best friend and she might actually kill anyone who threatens Down Below."

"What was she before?"

Clint shrugged. "I never asked. What's important to us is what you are, not what you were."

It was on the tip of Phil's tongue to ask what Clint had been before Down Below, but he couldn't. Maybe one day Clint would tell him, but Phil didn't want to push him away by asking. Not when they'd only just reconnected and he didn't want to lose that again.

"I missed you," he said, before he even realised he was going to say it. With more deliberation, he said it again. "I missed you."

Clint went completely still for a moment, before slowly letting out a sigh. His shoulders dropped, but there was a smile on his face, so it wasn't disappointment. Relief, maybe?

"I thought it was just me," Clint said. "It's normally just me."

"Just you...just you, what?"

"Having inappropriate feelings."

Phil couldn't decide whether to frown or smile. He suspected his expression ended up caught somewhere between the two. "Why inappropriate?"

"I can't be a part of your world," Clint said. "You can't be part of mine. That makes missing each other really bad for both of us."

"Oh." Phil swallowed. "Yes. I guess it does."

"Doesn't have to stop us, though. Feeling the missing, I mean." A smile flashed across Clint's face, gone so fast that Phil almost thought he'd imagined it. "As long as we don't do anything even more stupid."

"Yes, as long as we aren't really foolish, I suppose missing each other can be mutual."

"It's going to hurt, missing you." Another lightning fast smile. "Knowing that the missing is mutual."

Phil nodded. "There's no way around it. We're going to hurt whatever we do, if we miss each other."

"So, maybe doing something really stupid wouldn't be that bad," Clint said. "If missing is going to hurt, then it's not like we can make it that much worse. Can we?"

"I think we probably can."

Clint sighed. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

"On the other hand," Phil said, throwing caution and every other sensible feeling to the wind, "you've already kissed me once."

"You noticed that, right?"

"It was hard not to." Phil chuckled. "Even though it was so fast that I sometimes wondered whether I'd imagined it."

"You've wondered about me?"

"More often than I should."

Clint's smile was shy, and it didn't fade this time. It lingered around the corners of his mouth and in the lines around his eyes. "I figured that I should take the chance when I had it. Didn't figure that I'd ever get to see you again."

"But you did."

"Yeah."

"Was this just an excuse?"

Clint shook his head vigorously. "Definitely not. It's all true, every word. The whispering gallery, Insight Construction, all of it."

"I never doubted it." Phil tilted his head. "But was there someone else you could have gone to?"

"Nobody who would have offered to help," Clint said. "Nobody like you, all raring to dive right in and fight for the right thing." He hesitated, before adding, "I can't pretend I wasn't happy to have a reason to see you again, though."

"Clint, I--"

Warm, firm lips cut Phil off. He couldn't even remember what he'd been about to say. Clint crossed the room faster than anyone should be able to move and Phil wrapped his arms around Clint so that he couldn't run away this time. It was a clumsy kiss at first, all teeth and tongue with no finesse. Phil gentled it, slowing everything down until it was exactly right. Until he could taste Clint's lips, trace the contours with his tongue, and feel Clint shiver against him.

Clint's nails dug into his skin through his t-shirt, too sharp, but that became gentler, too. Warm hands flattened against Phil's back, the heat radiating through thin cotton, and Phil was torn between relief and frustration that Clint didn't push under his shirt.

Frustration, because it denied him an excuse to find a way under Clint's layers of shirts and cloak.

Relief, because he wasn't sure they would find a way back if they got in too deep tonight.

The kiss was going to cause enough trouble. Phil coaxed Clint to deepen it, invited him in, and relished the low growl that rumbled against his chest when their tongues met. Clint's sharp incisors grazed his lips, but the sting sent a wave of heat through Phil's body. Everything was strange and different, like no other person he'd ever kissed, and Phil was deeply afraid that one kiss would never be enough.

They were both breathing hard when Phil broke the kiss, pulling away reluctantly. Clint seemed to understand that he didn't want it to be over yet; he mouthed softly at Phil's jaw, kissing down his neck, and Phil couldn't catch his breath for a long time.

"Was this the really stupid thing?" Clint said, his voice low and warm in Phil's ear.

Phil had to swallow a moan. "I think...I think it was."

"Doing the wrong thing shouldn't feel this good."

"If it didn't, no one would do it."

Clint pulled back and stared at Phil, his eyes wide. "Have you done this before?"

"Done what before?"

"This." Clint's head jerk could have meant anything. "What we're doing."

"Kissing? Yes, Clint, I've done it before."

It was difficult to tell in the moonlight, but it looked like Clint might have rolled his eyes. "I got that you've got some experience. That's not what I meant."

"Ah. Kissing the wrong person." Phil shrugged. "I've done that, too."

"How does it go?"

"Badly, usually." Phil lifted his hand and cupped Clint's jaw, rubbing his thumb over Clint's cheekbone. "It usually ends up hurting."

Clint leaned into his hand, his eyes drifting closed for a breathless moment. Phil desperately wanted to lean in and kiss him again, but he knew where that would lead, and what they'd done was already too much.

When Clint opened his eyes, he turned his head slightly and kissed the base of Phil's thumb. The warm breath caressing Phil's skin was almost too much to bear.

"I'd better go," Clint said. "Otherwise I'll never leave."

Phil bit down on the words rising in his throat. Inviting Clint to stay, to never leave, would be as dangerous right now as kissing. Worse, maybe.

By unspoken agreement, they stepped back from each other. Phil tried to burn the image of Clint standing in the moonlight into his memory, wishing he dared to take a photo, but knowing that would be a disaster if anyone ever found it. Nothing was truly private anymore.

"Goodnight," Clint said.

Phil nodded. "Goodnight. I'll find something for you."

"Thank you."

Without another word, Clint turned and left, his cloak sweeping behind him as he strode through the French doors. Phil refused to allow himself to follow. Letting Clint leave was hard enough; it would be even harder to know where he went.

Phil went back to his cold bed, picking up the flashlight on the way past, and refused to allow himself to imagine what it would be like to take Clint to bed with him.


	8. Chapter 8

A lamp was still burning in Bruce's office. Clint hadn't planned to talk to Bruce, but he saw the golden glow spilling out into the hallway, and he poked his head in. Just to check. Sometimes Bruce fell asleep at his desk, when he was deep in one of the projects he never explained to anyone.

Clint had been turning lamps down and helping him to bed for as long as he'd known Bruce. Back when Bruce first brought him Down Below, it had helped to have something useful to do, and Clint's only real talent had been with a bow and arrow. He'd never helped people before. He'd mostly hidden, when he wasn't on display for people to gaze at with horror.

Now he had useful things to do. He had more people to watch over, children to teach and read to, frightened youngsters to tame and make safe. Sometimes, it was good to go back to the beginning, though.

Bruce had fallen asleep with his head pillowed on his arms and an open book. It was some kind of physics text book, not very old or precious. Clint moved silently as he turned down the lamp and emptied the cold teapot, but Bruce woke up anyway. He blinked in Clint's direction before fumbling for his glasses.

"What time is it?"

Clint smiled. "Late. Or early. Depends on your perspective, I guess."

Bruce rubbed his forehead. "Where were you?"

A lie was on the tip of Clint's tongue, but Bruce and Natasha were the two people in the world that he'd always told the truth to. And Phil, now, he supposed. Phil was someone who deserved to always have the truth.

"I was finding us some help," Clint said.

Bruce tilted his head. "What kind of help?"

"The legal kind."

A puzzled expression creased Bruce's face, but only for a moment, before shifting to something sadder. "The lawyer."

"Phil."

"Clint--"

"I know what I'm doing," Clint said. "He's a good man. You know he didn't tell anyone about us. He wants to help."

"We can't afford lawyers."

"Phil is a different kind of lawyer. He's with the DA, now and he has access to police reports. It's not going to cost us anything we can't afford."

"This is a really bad idea."

Clint crossed his arms over his chest. "Why? He might find stuff that we--"

"You're going to get hurt," Bruce said, a frown deepening the lines on his face. "You're from two different worlds. There can't ever be any happily ever afters for either of you."

"Who said I want one?"

Bruce sighed. "How long have we known each other?"

Clint shrugged.

"You think it can all work out," Bruce said. "I know you do, but it can't. He'll move on eventually and you'll stay down here."

"I can feel him." The words came out against Clint's will. He hadn't even spoken to Natasha about it since the night Phil left. "I know when he's unhappy or afraid."

The lines around Bruce's mouth deepened. "Clint..."

"Even if he moves on," Clint said, "I'm not sure that I can anymore."

"If I ask you not to see him again, you'll just ignore me, won't you?"

Clint didn't reply, and Bruce's mouth turned down.

"I thought so." Bruce nodded. "I can't give you my blessing. I hate seeing any of you hurting. But we'll be here for you when you need us, no matter what happens to the tunnels."

He grabbed the cane that had been leaning against his desk and rose to his feet, his motions slow and infinitely weary. When Clint lurched forward to help, Bruce didn't protest. It was a measure of his exhaustion that he allowed Clint to help him across to the curtained alcove that held his bed.

Clint took his coat and helped him to tug off the shoe on his bad leg. By the time Clint had put the coat away, Bruce had taken off the other shoe and was lying under the covers, his cane propped against the wall. The lines of pain around his mouth were too deep for Clint's peace of mind, but that was something he couldn't help with. Nobody could, not even Natasha, and Clint wondered, as he always did, what Bruce felt he had to pay for with all that pain.

He said goodnight quietly and slipped out.

Later, lying in bed as the sun rose, Clint tried to remember Bruce's words, but all he could think about was the feel of Phil's mouth on his, and the way his soul sang whenever Phil touched him.


	9. Chapter 9

The stack of files on Phil's desk was as high as it had ever been at Garrett and Coulson, but it didn't fill him with the dull sense of despair that it had back then. He put down his tray of coffee cups and bag of pastries on a small clear area at one corner and picked up the top folder from the new stack that had appeared overnight.

After a while, he realised that he'd been staring at the neatly typed label without reading it. His mind had drifted back to last night again, kissing Clint in the moonlight. It had been wandering back to those few minutes with distracting regularity: when he was brushing his teeth; on the subway; while he waited in line at the coffee shop. Phil had to bite the inside of his lip to force the goofy smile off his face.

Just in time, because Ward knocked and opened the door simultaneously, and Phil was determined that he wasn't going to let Ward see this side of him. It wasn't that he disliked Ward, not exactly, but the man had very little personality and disturbingly sharp eyes.

"Morning, boss," Ward said, with a smile that didn't move past his lips. "Those depositions you wanted are in your inbox and we picked up a new case overnight--three kids caught breaking and entering."

He also seemed to have no life outside the office, which worried Phil more than he liked to admit. Ward was young, energetic. He should have some kind of life--friends, a partner, the need to see a damn movie every now and then--but Phil hadn't caught him having one yet.

Phil would be the first to admit that he'd only just got a life again, but that put him in a better position to understand how dangerous it was to have nothing outside work. Ward even spent the weekends reading case law. So far, the only sign of a personality that Phil had detected was one mention of a run Ward had taken around Central Park. He'd almost celebrated, until Ward explained the importance of a fit body to support a fit mind.

"You've already talked to the officers, I assume?" Phil asked, knowing the answer already.

Ward nodded. "They were caught in the act. Should be an easy conviction."

"Can you run their bail hearings?"

"Uh, sure." Ward's eyebrows rose. "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing," Phil said. "I just need to see Daisy, down in IT."

"I could do that," Ward said. "We talk in the coffee line sometimes. If there's something wrong with your computer--"

It killed Phil a little to stomp on the possibility that Ward might be making a friend, but he shook his head. "It's not something you can help with, sorry."

A flash of disappointment crossed Ward's face, but it was gone in a moment. "I'd better get to those bail hearings, then. Judge Hand's court always runs on time."

"Thank you." 

Phil smiled, and picked up the paper tray of coffee and pastries. As Ward turned to leave, a though struck him.

"Ward," Phil said. "About those hearings."

Ward turned back, one eyebrow raised.

"Do any of them have records?" Phil asked.

"First time for all of them," Ward said promptly.

"Maybe see whether you can make a deal with their attorneys. Something more constructive than jail time."

Ward frowned. "They were caught in the middle of committing a crime. They broke into an electronics store, and were putting iPhones and tablets in their backpacks."

"They're young and very stupid," Phil said. "They got caught. We need to give them a better choice about their future."

"They're criminals."

"Who might still be capable of turning their lives around, if we can find a better solution than three months in jail, where they'll meet real criminals and get in deeper."

The frown didn't soften, but Ward nodded. "I'll talk to their attorneys. They're probably all with public defenders."

"Do that and see what you can arrange," Phil said. "We can throw the book at them if they're caught again, but not on a first offense. Judge Hand likes to see us working with defendants to steer them onto new paths if we can."

Ward's brief smile didn't reach his eyes. Phil wasn't sure he'd ever seen Ward smile and mean it.

"Sure thing, boss," Ward said. "Say hi to Daisy for me."

"I will."

***

Daisy's office was a cubicle in a surprisingly bright, airy room, near the top of the building.

"Everyone expects a basement," Daisy said, eyeing the bag of pastries on Phil's tray. "IT is always in a basement, right? Except here, they put us in a greenhouse."

The sun was barely peeking through the windows, but the large room was already uncomfortably warm. All those windows and the skylights overhead were great for natural light, but the building was old and the air-conditioning was creaky, at best, so the greenhouse comparison was apt.

"If I could splice into the network down there," Daisy said, "I'd move in a heartbeat. But my supervisor noticed the last time I tried it and I think they superglued my computer to the desk."

Phil chuckled, and Daisy grinned at him.

"I need your help," he said.

Her smile widened. "I didn't figure you for the kind of guy who brings coffee and danishes with no good reason. Gimme."

He put the tray down and eased out one of the cups. Daisy took it and gestured imperiously for Phil to lean against her wall, in lieu of an actual guest chair. Phil tore the paper bag open and Daisy's eyes lit up at the slight of half a dozen assorted pastries. She even let him keep one apple turnover before pulling the rest closer.

"Mm, this is the good coffee shop," she said, through a mouthful of raspberry danish. "What do you need me to do for this?"

"I need you to find out who owns Insight Construction," Phil said.

Daisy hmm-ed as she swallowed. "Insight. Wow. They're big. You're going after them?"

"I've got a case that might involve them," Phil said carefully. "I'd appreciate some more information on what I'm walking into."

"It's not going to be easy," Daisy said. "I took a look at them last year. They bought out a whole block near where a friend lives and killed the neighbourhood. Not literally, obviously, but all the character got sucked out as soon as the machines rolled in to start building."

"What happened to your friend?"

"She moved to Queens."

"What were you planning to do?"

Daisy shrugged. "Mail their CEO a big box of glitter or something, but I couldn't get an address, let alone a name. I can try again for you, though, if you've got something on them."

"I'm not sure yet."

"Give me a couple of days and I'll see what I can dig up." Daisy tapped the edge of the paper bag. "Anything else? This many pastries bought a lot more than just a name."

Phil nodded. "I need you to dig into the police records and see if you can find any reports that might look like harassment in this area." He dropped a piece of paper with the addresses onto Daisy's desk. "Vandalism, arson, assault, anything like that. Send it all to my email address."

Daisy paused in the middle of chewing, staring at him for a long moment before she seemed to realise what she was doing and swallowed. "Shit, boss. You think Insight is forcing people out?"

Her voice was pitched so low that it couldn't possibly carry past the walls of her cubicle. Phil unconsciously leaned closer.

"I've heard rumours," he said.

Daisy nodded slowly. "That would explain why they got the land so easily."

"How soon can you have it for me?"

"Give me a day," Daisy said. "I'll bring you what I've got."

"I'll be waiting."

Phil popped the last bite of his turnover into his mouth and picked up his half-finished cup of coffee. Daisy was already typing faster than he could follow as he left.

***

Phil tried not to feel disappointed that Clint didn't return that night. They hadn't promised anything.

He left the balcony windows open, anyway, and woke at every sound with his heart racing and his stomach churning from hope.

***

He arranged to meeting Garrett for lunch at a quiet bistro halfway between their offices. As he waited, Phil was suddenly struck by the realisation that it had been months since he'd last seen Garrett. They'd talked on the phone a few times, exchanged emails and messages while the business of breaking the partnership was done, but face to face?

The last time Phil had seen Garrett was in the hospital after his second round of surgery. Garrett hadn't been angry anymore about Phil leaving the firm, but he'd been tense and unable to settle. He'd picked up cards and read them distractedly, stolen the grapes Phil wasn't going to eat anyway, and left after only a few minutes. It hadn't seemed odd at the time, but now, Phil wondered whether Garrett had really been as accepting of his decision as he'd seemed.

After all, Garrett hadn't made any invitations to lunch or drinks since, and he'd found excuses every time Phil extended an olive branch, until Phil stopped trying.

He checked his phone, expecting to see a message with another excuse, but all he had was a reminder from Ward about a deposition time this afternoon.

Ward really did take his role as Phil's second too seriously. Maybe Phil should check that he was getting his own work done and have some kind of talk with him if he was letting anything slide in favour of Phil's cases.

Phil didn't have time to take that thought any further. Garrett's voice boomed through the bistro and he sat up straighter. He was fairly sure Garrett had never arrived anywhere subtly in his life.

"Phil!" Garrett said, when he was still a couple of feet away. "Long time, no see. You're looking good."

Phil half stood and shook Garrett's hand, biting down on his instinctive response. After all, it wasn't Phil who had made sure they were never in the same room together.

"I'm glad we could arrange this," Phil said, as Garrett sat down. "I know how busy we both are."

Garrett waved that away. "Anything for an old friend. You ready to come back to the light side? I've got papers just waiting for your signature."

"I'm happy where I am," Phil said.

"Too bad. Ready to order?"

They talked about trivial things--basketball, traffic, Garrett's new boat, nothing connected to the law--until they were wiping up the last of their pasta sauce with pieces of ciabatta. 

Phil tried to sound casual as he asked, "Do you still do work for those construction companies?"

Garrett only paused for a moment in his effort to scrape up the last bit of tomato sauce, but it was enough for Phil to notice. Hmm.

"Sure I do," Garrett said, wide and expansive as always. "Got to pay the bills somehow, right? And construction always needs lawyers. What's up?"

"Nothing much," Phil said. "A friend is trying to trace the owner of a company and he's hitting a lot of dead ends."

"The kind of friend you make at the DA's office?" There was a sharp look in Garrett's eyes.

Phil shook his head. "Nothing to do with the DA's office."

Some of the wariness faded, but the friendly smile Garrett shot him was still too tense. "You know how those guys like their privacy. Who are you trying to trace?"

"The owner of Insight Construction."

Garrett smile widened. It would have fooled most people, but Phil had known Garrett for too long. "'Fraid I can't help you, Phil. They're not one of mine."

"It was a long shot," Phil said.

"Hey, maybe I can ask around for you," Garrett said. "I know some guys who know some guys. Old friends have to stick together, right?"

"Right."

"How is Ward working out?" Garrett asked.

"You know him?"

Garrett shrugged. "Suggested he try his luck at the DA's office when he had a crisis of faith or some dumb shit at our place. Figured you guys could knock the rough edges off him and help him figure out how the world really works."

"He's very good at his job," Phil said, choosing his words carefully.

"That he is." Garrett laughed. "Kind of a cardboard stiff, though."

Phil wiped his mouth and set his napkin down by his plate. "He's got a lot of promise."

Garrett laughed again and signalled for the bill.

***

There was a message from Daisy waiting when Phil got back to his computer. He sent a quick acknowledgement before hurrying off to the deposition Ward had reminded him about, and didn't get back to his desk again until early evening. The building had that quiet, empty feeling offices have after most people have gone home. Even Ward's office was empty.

Phil was considering leaving, too, but someone knocked on the door and it swung open to reveal Daisy carrying a small stack of Chinese food cartons.

"I saw you online," she said, "and I thought you might be hungry."

Before Phil could protest that he wasn't, his stomach gurgled, and Daisy grinned. He gestured her to a chair and stole the pork chow mein and a pair of chopsticks.

"So, I looked into those addresses you gave me," Daisy said, between mouthfuls of cashew chicken, "and I've got nothing."

"It was a long shot," Phil said.

Daisy waved her chopsticks. "No, I mean, I've got nothing. Nada. Not a single police report in that three block area for a year. No break ins, no loud music, not even a parking ticket. That's weird, right?"

Phil swallowed a mouthful of pork so fast that he almost choked on it. "That's definitely odd. Are you sure?"

"Positive. Nothing has been logged into the system at any precinct since last year."

"Maybe it's a fluke?" Phil said. "Maybe it's a highly unlikely blip, and that area is experiencing an unusual level of criminal behaviour."

Daisy gave him an unimpressed look, and Phil shrugged, digging out a mouthful of noodles.

"I checked a couple of other places that Insight Construction worked," Daisy said. "In the year before they bought up the land, there were no police reports logged. Nothing. It's like the police just stopped going there as soon as Insight got interested."

"Once is coincidence."

"More than once is a pattern," Daisy said. "Boss, what did you trip onto?"

"I don't know," Phil said. "I really don't know."


	10. Chapter 10

The message that came down the pipes was frantic, the taps ringing too loud and too fast, almost incoherent. A runner interrupted Clint's meeting with Bruce, where they were scribbling on plans in an attempt to figure out the least disruptive route to evacuate and rebuild. The boy was pale and his breath was coming in harsh gulps from the speed he'd fled down the hallways. He managed to gasp out "Fitz" and that was all Clint needed; he took off at a run, trusting Bruce to catch the boy and help him recover.

It didn't take Clint long to reach Fitz's den. He cheated a little, riding the top of a subway car, which the children were never allowed to do. The clanging of the pipes filled Fitz's tiny home when Clint arrived. Clint only caught parts of it, but Fitz was listening with an expression of intense concentration, muttering under his breath.

"Men," Fitz murmured. "Fire. They're coming. We're trapped."

"Where?" Clint said.

Fitz's frown deepened. "I don't...Bendall Apartments. They're terrified."

It was in the middle of the area that Insight Construction was planning to demolish. The building was next to the VA where Sam worked. If it went up, half that block would burn, and so would an entire community that had been building up for years. It was everything they were fighting to preserve.

Clint squeezed Fitz's shoulder hard, relieved when he seemed to emerge from the trance he'd fallen into while he listened to the code. Fitz's eyes were wild at the edges and he needed a couple of tries before he could speak.

"They're being burned out," Fitz said. "The doors are locked and they can't get into the tunnels."

"I'll go," Clint said.

"Go fast, okay?"

Clint nodded and ran. He rode the top of a subway train again, not caring who saw him. He jumped chasms that he usually skirted around. Anything to shave a few seconds off the trip.

The smoke was already filtering into the tunnels when he reached the place where they emerged into the upper world. It was immediately obvious why nobody had been able to escape down to them: the entrance to the tunnels was hidden under a grate behind the building, and a huge chain had been threaded through the metal door that people should have been pouring out of. Clint could hear frightened cries and pounding filtering through it, but the chain was too thick.

The chain would probably be cut away as soon as any authorities arrived who couldn't be bribed into silence. In fact, a pair of bolt cutters had been left behind a dumpster pushed against the wall. Clint grinned and stole them.

He might have been able to tear the chain apart, but why bother when he had the tools handy?

His cloak and the night hid his face, but he kept back as soon as he got the door open, counting the people who streamed out. There were a few familiar faces. Not as many as he'd expected; some people had already moved out.

Clint couldn't keep his growl choked down. One old woman glanced his way, her eyes widening, but she seemed to understand why he was there. She nodded at him and made a shooing gesture. Clint shouldered his bolt cutter and darted down the alley at the side of the building.

At the front, another thick chain had been threaded through the door handles. It gave way easily under Clint's strength and the sharp jaws of the cutter. More frightened people streamed out as soon as he wrenched the doors open, the security keypad sparking bright in the night when it tore from the wall. 

To Clint's surprise, Sam followed the stream. Soot streaked his face and there was a small patch on his shirt that might have been burnt.

"What happened?"

Sam's lips tightened. "Fire, man. Bunch of guys rolled up in a van, locked the doors, cut the phone lines, threw Molotov cocktails through the upstairs window."

"What are you doing here?"

"Who do you think was banging on the pipes in the basement?" Sam nodded at the building, where flames were already started to flutter in the windows. "I was visiting a friend."

"Is everyone out?"

"There's an old lady on the second floor," Sam said. "Wheelchair. I tried, but I couldn't get her out, and the elevators haven't worked in months. That's why I called you."

"I'll find her."

"I'll hold you to that."

In the distance, the wail of a fire truck floated through the air.

"Fucking finally," Sam said.

"You stay here, get everyone safe and tell the fire guys what happened."

"I can do that," Sam said. "You try not to get yourself killed, okay? Steve would never forgive me if I let that happen."

"Yeah, he would."

Sam shrugged and made a shooing gesture. Clint went.

The air inside the building was hot and filled with smoke. If the fire had started on an upper floor then it would take time for the flames to spread down, but the smoke was sinking, creeping into every space it could find. Clint pulled his hood as far forward as he could, trying to keep the worst out of his eyes. After a few steps, he had to pause to tear a strip off his shirt and tie it over his mouth. It would hide the most distorted parts of him, too, although the darkness and smoke should keep anyone from seeing his face.

The stairs felt sound when he stepped on them, but he ran anyway. There was no telling how much longer any of the building would be accessible. A ceiling could collapse at any moment.

Hopefully the fire fighters would be able to save the neighbouring buildings, but this one was wrecked.

Hopefully Insight hadn't paid them off to allow everything to burn. There were too many people who would get hurt.

Clint's throat was stinging as he ran down the hallway, searching for the apartment with a frightened old woman inside. Most of the doors were open. The residents had clearly decided that there was no salvaging anything, so why bother to lock up as they fled? A door at the end was closed, and Clint couldn't see any light under it. Hopefully that meant the woman had stuffed towels into the gaps, to keep the smoke out.

It only occurred to him, as he charged the door, that the power was probably out so there wouldn't be any light, anyway.

The door was solidly built. He charged it twice, his shoulder aching after each failed attempt, and finally kicked it open in a move that jarred all the way up his back. This was going to hurt later.

Smoke had filled the apartment and the only light was what filtered in through the windows from the street, weak and barely effective through the thick air. Clint coughed and steadied himself against the door frame, trying to see the woman he was searching for. A shape moved in the corner. The roar of the fire was too loud to hear an old woman's cry over, which was worrying, and Clint hoped that he'd found her and not a cat. He stumbled through the room, crashing into small tables and almost falling when he found a sofa in his path. Breaking china was barely audible over the crackle of flames, growling as they grew closer.

Clint glanced back once, to see an angry orange glow flooding in through the doorway. He didn't look again.

The shape in the corner was an old woman, slumped in her wheelchair and barely responsive when Clint shook her shoulder. Her face was streaked with soot and her skin felt like paper when Clint touched her hands.

He couldn't carry her back through the building. Even if the flames had left a pathway for them, which seemed unlikely, she wouldn't survive the heat and the thick, choking air.

Clint gathered her up in his arms. She barely weighed anything. Her soft cry was drowned under the loud roar as the fire licked up the walls by the door, hungry to consume everything in the apartment.

Blue lights were flashing in the street below. Clint glanced down, hoping that there would be an escape down there, but the fire trucks were still spilling out men and there was no way their cherry picker could be sent up to save them in time.

He pulled his cloak over the woman held tight against his chest, took a couple of steps back, and ran at the window.

Glass shattering against his shoulders and his face stung. For a moment, Clint hung suspended in the air, waiting for gravity to claim them both. He had enough time for a thought to flit across his mind--"This looks bad"--and then they were falling.

His feet hit the ground with an impact that he felt all the way up his spine. Clint dropped into a crouch with the momentum, trying to resist the habit of rolling into a tumble to absorb the impact. A tumble might break the woman he was trying to rescue.

He almost dropped her, anyway. Almost tipped forward, except hands gripped his shoulder and steadied him, and he looked up into Sam's worried face.

"Dude," Sam said, and then, "Shit, dude."

Clint shrugged and set the woman down on the sidewalk with infinite care. She whimpered softly, but she was alive.

"You need to get out of here," Sam said, glancing over his shoulder. Two fire fighters were running towards them. "I'll handle this. Go."

Clint nodded and ran, ducking into a shadowed alley and ignoring the shouts and the pounding feet behind him. He ran and jumped, throat and lungs burning, until the pursuit stopped and he was free to retreat to the safety of the tunnels.

***

Something woke Phil. A sound. Scraping followed by soft footsteps.

He blinked blearily, squinting against the bright moonlight pouring into his bedroom. After several disturbed nights, hoping for another visit from Clint, he'd finally fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep that tried to suck him back down even as he sat up and scrubbed his eyes.

There was someone moving in the living area.

Phil clenched his teeth against the surge of hope that made his heart race. It might be Clint.

It might not. The more he learned about Insight Construction--or failed to learn--the warier he felt about them. Whoever was at the top really didn't want to be found, and really didn't want anyone to look too closely into their activities. Even Garrett had confessed to being stumped, which was unusual. Garrett knew all the gossip, every dirty secret, and he'd found nothing.

He'd sent an email every day detailing the levels of nothing he'd found. The tone tried to be reassuring, but Phil couldn't make himself feel happier. If Insight Construction was that good at hiding their tracks, then what were they up to?

He also couldn't help feeling that he was missing something. With every day that passed, a nagging itch was growing stronger at the back of his mind. There was something he should remember, but he couldn't drag it free from the swirling morass of thoughts and worries. He'd seen something or heard something once, but the memory stubbornly stayed buried no matter how hard he tried. No matter how many headaches he gave himself from trying to pull it out.

In the living area, Phil caught the sound of a chair scraping, as though someone had knocked against it. Maybe it was Clint.

Maybe not.

Phil grabbed the baseball bat he'd taken to propping against the wall beside his nightstand. Mack was right about not bringing a weapon that could be turned against him, but sometimes the heft of a wooden handle helped to calm the nervous churning in his stomach.

His bare feet were silent as he slid out of bed and padded across the thick carpet. He rested the bat against his shoulder and carefully eased the door open, relieved he hadn't latched it before he fell into his exhausted sleep..

A cloaked figure straightened and turned his head. Clint.

Phil breathed out a sigh of relief and allowed the bat to fall to the floor with a muffled thump as Clint crossed the room in a few long bounds and pulled him into a tight hug. It was almost too tight, too desperate, but Phil didn't care. He wrapped his arms around Clint and held on.

Clint smelled of smoke and sweat. The reek of it stung Phil's nose and throat, forcing him to pull back when he really wanted to bury his face in Clint's hair and never let go.

"What happened?" Phil asked.

Clint reluctantly allowed him to move back, although his hands stayed on Phil's hips, as though he was afraid to allow Phil to leave touching range. "A fire."

Phil didn't roll his eyes, but it took a huge effort to squash the urge. "I can see that. Where was the fire?" A cold shiver ran down his back. "The tunnels..."

"Down Below is fine," Clint said. "The fire was in an apartment building. I had to get an old lady out. One of our helpers sent a message when he couldn't call 911."

"Why couldn't he call 911?"

"They cut the lines and that building has always been a black spot for cell signals."

Phil swallowed. "They cut the lines."

Clint nodded. "Chained the doors up, too, and threw Molotov cocktails in."

"Was anyone hurt?"

"Nothing major." Clint looked down. "I think. I couldn't stick around to check on the old lady."

Phil lifted a hand and cupped Clint's jaw, raising his head a little so their eyes could meet. "I'll check on them tomorrow. I promise."

It was difficult to see Clint's expression, hidden in the shadows of his cloak hood, but Phil didn't need to see him to know how he felt. The sudden crush of lips against his told him everything.

Phil barely hesitated before kissing back, trying to put everything he felt into the hot press of mouths and bodies. Clint's tongue flicked against his lips and he opened, allowing Clint inside and almost smiling when Clint groaned at the contact. The taste of smoke and ash was strong on Clint's lips, but Phil didn't--couldn't--pull back. He wanted this too much. Wanted the feel of Clint's wide shoulders under his hands. Wanted the low moan when their hips ground together. Wanted Clint's hot mouth and sharp teeth and everything else he could get.

It was Clint who pulled back and said, "I stink."

Phil had to clear his throat twice before he could force out words. "You really do."

"I should go," Clint said, reluctance threading through his voice.

"You could stay." Phil refused to look away, even though he could feel Clint's sharply indrawn breath and they both knew where the invitation could lead. "I have a shower. You don't have to leave."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and breathless.

After an eternity, Clint nodded, and Phil could breathe again.

***

The shower felt like nothing Clint could describe. Hot water and heavy pressure against his strained muscles was amazing. It was a world away from the tubs of hot water he'd always used Down Below and the thin streams of lukewarm water he'd sometimes been treated to when he'd travelled with the circus. He stood under the shower, revelling in the feel of the water streaming down his body until his skin started to shrivel, and the water never ran out. He wasn't sure how that even worked.

The towel Phil had given him was thick and fluffy, clearly new. Clint never had anything new. Nothing in his life had ever been fresh and untouched.

He towelled his hair until his scalp stung and the messy locks stood out around his head in fluffy masses. It smelled faintly of citrus from the shampoo. His sensitive nose told him that it was the same hint of citrus he'd caught on Phil's skin when they kissed. It was a good scent. Maybe he could try to steal some, so that he'd have the memory even if whatever was happening ended.

Clint shook the thought away and picked up his clothes, sniffing them to assess how deeply the smoke smell had penetrated. His cloak stank, but his shirt and pants weren't as eye-watering, although he wouldn't be able to sneak up on anything with a nose until he got them cleaned.

He was contemplating his shirt when there was a knock at the door and Phil's voice floated through.

"I've got a washing machine, if you want to throw anything in."

Clint sniffed his shirt again and wrinkled his nose before bundling it up with everything except his cloak and boots. He wrapped the thick, damp towel around his waist and opened the door.

The way Phil looked at him made heat rush to Clint's face. He shifted his feet, clutching the ball of clothes against his chest.

Part of him wanted to straighten and strut a little, show off to make the hot darkness in Phil's eyes grow.

Another part of him wanted to grab his cloak, wrap up in it, and hide. Nobody looked at him like that. His body was too strange, too malformed. Hair where it shouldn't be, muscles that bulged and corded too much.

His strange face, which fascinated and repulsed people in equal measure.

"Um, washing machine?" Clint asked. His voice sounded odd, breaking in places it didn't usually break. "I guess this stuff needs to go in it."

Phil blinked. When he swallowed, Clint heard it.

"Washing machine," Phil said. "Right. I have one of those."

"That's what you told me. Hope that wasn't a line to get me..."

Clint trailed away, unable to finish the sentence. It felt too much like speaking the truth.

He was a big fan of the truth in almost every circumstance, except the one that left him clutching a ball of smoke-reeking clothes and hoping for something he probably wasn't going to get.

Phil made a strange sound in his throat and then he was crowding Clint against the doorframe, pulling the clothes out of Clint's hands and kissing him like it was all he'd ever wanted. Kissing as though it was a dying wish, a want that was bigger than both of them. Consuming Clint, setting him on fire, and Clint was right there with him, stoking the blaze higher.

This was probably a bad idea. Nothing had changed from the last time. There was no way this could end in some fluffy happily ever after, but Clint couldn't stop himself.

He dragged Phil closer, moaning when the soft cotton of Phil's t-shirt rubbed his bare chest, creating a hint of friction that he wanted--needed--to feel more of. Clint wanted Phil's hands there, his mouth there, but Phil's hands were gripping Clint's hips and his mouth was doing amazing things to Clint's tongue. It was too good to stop.

Clint tugged impatiently at Phil's t-shirt instead, realising too late how badly he'd misjudged his strength and the sharpness of his claw-like nails when the sound of ripping fabric filled the air.

Phil jerked back slightly, and Clint's gaze dropped immediately to the wet shininess of his lips. He missed them already.

"Good thing I didn't like this one," Phil said, with a small smile.

Clint started to apologise, but his tongue tangled on the words when Phil pulled the mangled t-shirt over his head with a graceful movement. Apparently Phil's decision to learn some self-defence was paying off. There were muscles Clint didn't remember from the night of the rescue and Bruce's careful stitching.

A hint of pink bloomed on Phil's face. Could he really be self-conscious? His body was beautiful. Perfect.

Clint's words were still getting lost behind his teeth, so he did the only thing he knew how: he cradled Phil's jaw carefully and kissed him again. Phil's fingers tangled in Clint's hair and somehow they were stumbling back, across the hallway, until Phil's back hit a wall and Clint could push up against him.

The feel of Phil's bare skin against his was electric. Heat and need surged through Clint, a pulse of want stronger than anything he'd felt before. He ground against Phil's hip, only realising that the towel had fallen somewhere when smooth cotton instead of fluffy terrycloth rubbed against his cock.

Clint growled, the sound rumbling in his chest. He couldn't help it; couldn't have held it in if he'd tried. There was too much, too many sensations, all competing for attention and he couldn't keep up. He wanted the taste of Phil in his mouth, he wanted Phil's hands everywhere, and he wanted to lick every inch of Phil's skin, all at once.

He wanted to lose himself in Phil forever.

Phil's hands untangled from Clint's hair and drifted down Clint's back, slowly, leaving tingles trailing in their wake. His fingers paused at the base of Clint's spine and Phil broke out of the kiss, leaning in to brush his mouth on Clint's jaw and whisper in his ear.

"I think you dropped something."

Clint tried to shrug casually, but he suspected that the wobble in his voice gave him away. "It was getting in the way."

"Seems a little unbalanced here."

"If you want to even things up..."

Except Phil didn't make any move to shed his pyjama pants, only leaning back against the wall with a patient expression. Clint almost started to complain, until he figured out what Phil was hinting at.

"Is it okay if I...?"

Phil nodded and Clint grinned. He hooked his fingers carefully under the waistband and pushed the cotton pants down until they fell to the floor. One of Phil's eyebrows rose.

Clint shrugged, again. "Didn't want to ruin anything else and make this evening cost you a ton."

He pretended not to hear Phil muttering, "It already has."

It was easier to kiss Phil and not think about the morning.

He kissed Phil's mouth, and down his neck, and trailed his lips and tongue across Phil's chest until Phil dragged him up again with a soft groan. Clint made a mental note that if he ever got to do this again, he wanted to find out what the skin at the crease of Phil's hip tasted like. There was so much territory to explore, and so little time to do it in. Already, Clint could feel the night slipping away too fast, and he had to be gone before dawn.

There was a taste of desperation in Phil's kiss, too. Clint half-thought about suggesting they find the bed, do this properly, but Phil's hand wrapped around his cock and every thought scattered. Phil's palm was warm and dry, his touch tentative, as though he wasn't sure what Clint wanted.

Clint was naked, so hard he couldn't stop his hips twitching, and he couldn't keep his lips away from Phil's skin. He thought it was pretty obvious what he wanted.

Just to make sure, though, he grabbed Phil's wrist and lifted it. There was a flash of disappointment in Phil's eyes, just before Clint licked the palm of his hand with a challenging expression and guided it back to where it belonged. Phil definitely figured that out fast.

He also seemed to have the idea that it was safe for Clint to do the same with him, instead of just using friction to take care of the job. Clint tried to resist--what if his nails got in the way?--but the warm stripe of wetness across his palm and Phil's trusting look shattered his resolve.

"You can't tell me you've never done this for yourself," Phil said, his voice low and intense. "You don't hurt yourself when you do it, do you?"

"I learned not to."

"So, you know how to do it without hurting yourself. You won't hurt me."

The logic was inescapable, and Clint didn't want to find any loopholes. The silky heat in his hand chased away all protests and the high-pitched whimper when he stroked tentatively broke the last of his caution.

Maintaining a rhythm when Phil seemed determined to bring Clint to the fastest, hardest orgasm he'd ever known was almost impossible. It didn't seem to matter to Phil. He made low noises that sent Clint's senses into overdrive no matter how inexpertly Clint worked.

The heat and pleasure that rushed through Clint took him by surprise and he barely had the sense to release Phil's cock in time. He was aware that he'd groaned, low and animalistic, muffled against Phil's neck. That his hips twitched and jerked, and Phil kept stroking and rubbing him through it. That he slumped and almost fell when the intensity wore away, and Phil caught him around the waist, smearing sticky stuff all over his hip. It was amazing. Too good. Wonderful in a way that a handjob against a wall wasn't supposed to feel.

Phil made a protesting noise when Clint wrapped a hand around his cock again, muttering something about returning favours not being mandatory. Clint didn't care. He kissed Phil sloppily, sucked a hickey low on his neck, and brought Phil over the edge into orgasm with the least elegant handjob in the history of sex.

The look on Phil's face was one that Clint wanted to etch into his memory forever.

***

The smell of smoke still drifted from Clint's cloak, even though they'd hung it on the balcony to air while his clothes washed and dried and they drifted in a pleasant nap on Phil's sofa. Phil didn't want to let Clint leave, but he couldn't make Clint stay, either.

They both had other lives and people who needed them. And the sun would come up soon.

Phil hugged Clint hard, memorising the smell and the feel of this moment.

They hadn't made any promises. They'd had sex, learned each other's orgasm sounds, but promises would be foolish.

Wouldn't they?

Clint pulled back, just outside easy touching range. "I have to go."

Phil nodded. "I'll check on your friends in the fire. Nobody's getting away with it."

"Thank you," Clint said. "For checking, and the clean clothes, and...and everything."

"You're welcome," Phil said, unable to stop himself from smiling. "Anytime."

A warm softness appeared around Clint's eyes, not quite a smile, but happier than he usually looked. He opened his mouth to say something, but the words didn't come. After a long pause, he darted in and kissed Phil, hard and fast, before running for the balcony window. By the time Phil reached it, Clint had disappeared into the night.


	11. Chapter 11

The ruined apartment building was still smoking a little when Phil arrived. The stink of it wafted down the street, even though the fire must have been out for at least ten hours. When Phil poked his head through the open doorway, the drip of water reached his ears, but the building was deserted. A broken strip of tape fluttered in the breeze, the only testament to the presence of the fire fighters.

It was disturbing how angry that made Phil. The people here had been abandoned. Nobody had stuck around to make sure the building didn't catch fire again, and there was no sign of an investigation, even though the residents must have told the officers on scene what happened.

Daisy was right. There was something really wrong happening here. Nobody should have had the power to chase the police and fire department away from this area, but it was happening anyway. Phil had spent a few minutes at the office, checking reports, before he headed out here, and no incidents had been logged.

If he hadn't been here to see it with his own eyes, he wouldn't have known that anything had happened.

The address Clint had given for his friend was a couple of doors away. A freshly-painted sign over the entrance couldn't disguise the remains of graffiti or the air of shabby desperation that permeated everything. Phil pushed the door open and had to stand for a moment, staring at the warm, clean hallway that greeted him. The faint smell of new paint reached his nose. The wooden floor was golden and shiny, freshly varnished, and everything felt bright and light. It was the complete opposite of what he'd expected from the exterior.

A murmur of voices floated down the hall, and Phil followed them to a door standing slightly ajar. He peeked through to see a handsome black man standing at the front of the room, facing a small group of men and women scattered across a variety of mismatched chairs. The air was heavy with emotion, and Phil retreated down the hallway, not wanting to intrude on what was clearly an important meeting.

Clint had mentioned that Sam counselled veterans. Phil could imagine what the conversation was about.

He stood beside a table covered with leaflets, instead. Most of them were about various programs available to vets--rehab, careers, counselling--but a few of the leaflets detailed local events. One caught his eye and he tugged it out from under a small stack of glossy flyers advertising meditation workshops.

It was printed in black and white on cheap paper, but the illustration wasn't a crudely Photoshopped thing. The cartoonist was talented and had caught the shabby warmth of the area precisely, making the huge crane and wrecking ball appear menacing by contrast. The initials "SR" in the corner made Phil frown until he figured out why he recognised them; it was a signature he'd seen in dozens of cartoons in big nationals over the last couple of months.

Steve Rogers.

Hadn't Clint mentioned that a Steve had obtained the plans for the proposed development?

Architect by day, successful cartoonist by night. Clint knew some talented people.

A burst of chatter made Phil turn his head, in time to see people streaming out of the meeting room. He flattened himself against the wall as they hurried past, towards the door, and waited until everyone had gone before walking back to the room. Sam was nudging chairs back into neat rows when Phil knocked at the door, and he looked up with a frown.

"Whatever you're selling," he said, "I'm not interested. Like I told the last three lawyers. This place isn't for sale."

Phil smiled. "I'm a lawyer, but not that kind. Clint sent me."

Sam's expression cleared, and a bright smile lit up his face. "You're the guy that Clint dragged home half dead a few months ago, right?"

"That's me." Phil could feel his face flushing and his lips tightening.

"After everything they told me, I thought you'd be..."

"More scarred?"

"Taller." Sam's smile didn't fade. "They can do miracles with surgery, now. Trust me, I see it every day."

"I suppose you do."

"You're here about the fire," Sam said.

Relief made Phil smile. People usually avoided talking about his face in a way that was painfully obvious; it was nice to meet someone who asked and moved on."I am. Is there anything you can tell me that Clint didn't?"

"Not much," Sam said. "The entrance to the tunnels isn't in the building, or I would have led everyone out that way, and fuck Bruce's rules. They chained the doors and cut the phone lines. Most of the people don't have cells because the building is a dead zone and there's no point. Kind of a perfect place to pull that shit, you know? There are a couple of other buildings on the block that they could have torched, and they would have been able to raise the alarm in a minute."

"You think it was deliberate."

"I know it was deliberate." A frown made Sam's face unexpectedly grim. "They were looking to frighten people out. Baseball bats and low-key shit isn't doing it. That's just making people mad. This? This is frightening people. I already saw three vans go by this morning, loaded up. People are starting to run."

"Would you be surprised if I told you that there aren't any official reports on anything that's happening out here?"

"Wish I was."

"You're sure it's Insight Construction behind all this?"

Sam very carefully pushed a chair into line, the legs scraping on the wooden floor. "I'd bet everything I own on it. Hell, I already have, because I'm not leaving. They send their lawyers around with demands and scary letters, they offer peanuts for buildings that people have lived in all their lives. And when we say no, all hell breaks loose and we can't get the cops to set foot inside unless shit's actually on fire. What would you think?"

"I'd think the same thing," Phil said. "I'd also start asking who they're bribing to keep all of this quiet."

"And that's what we need you for," Sam said. "You look like the kind of guy who can follow the money and make people hurt when you find the source."

Phil shrugged. "I'm not sure about making people hurt."

"I think you might surprise yourself."

"I have been taking some self-defence lessons lately."

"That's not what I meant, but good for you." Sam grinned. "Most of my clients have to learn how to _stop_ trying to defend themselves. Stop being always ready to hit first if someone looks at them wrong. But you? You seem the kind of guy who needs to know you _can_ hit, even if you never do it. That's the therapy that'll keep you from jumping at shadows."

"You sound a lot like my instructor."

"A good instructor is also counselling when he works." Sam shrugged. "I almost went into it myself, but then I figured out that I was better at the kind of counselling that doesn't use fists."

Phil smiled. "Both kinds are needed."

"Sad, but true." Sam held out a hand. "Sorry to push you out, but I've got another group session in here in ten minutes, and some of these people don't like strangers hanging around."

"I understand completely," Phil said, shaking his hand. "It was a pleasure to meet you. Hopefully I can help."

"I'm sure you'll do your best."

Phil hoped his best would be good enough.

***

He was still thinking about the burned out building and Sam's worried frown when he got back to his office. The paper cup of coffee he'd bought on his way in was scorching his hand, and it took him a moment to notice that the office wasn't empty.

Ward straightened up from the desk, a flash of guilt melting away into a welcoming smile so quickly that Phil almost thought he'd imagined it.

"Sir!" Ward made a vague gesture at the stacks of files on the desk. "I was looking for the phone transcripts for the DeHague case. I didn't think you'd be back before lunch."

Phil offered him a tight smile and put his cup down on a bare corner of the desk. His palm was smarting, but he refused to show it. Something about the situation felt off. An instinct deep inside warned him not to show weakness.

"The transcripts are in the file," Phil said, keeping his voice as mild as he could. "I left it on your desk."

Ward tilted his head, a puzzled frown appearing. "Really? I didn't see them."

"I put them there myself, after I highlighted the relevant parts."

"Huh. Guess I need to check again."

"That might be a good plan."

"Is there anything I can do for you, before I head back to my desk?"

Phil shook his head. "I think that I can manage."

"Are you sure?" Ward smiled, but the expression didn't reach his eyes. "I can follow up on your meeting...what was it, again?"

"A private matter." Phil's answering smile felt tight. "I can handle it on my own."

"Fair enough." Ward nodded to the door. "I'll check that file now, sir."

The door closed behind him with a soft snick and Phil contemplated his desk for a long moment. He had no good reason to suspect Ward of anything. So far, the man had been an exemplary lawyer, handling second chair duties with an ease that Phil wished he'd had when he was the same age. Yes, Ward could use a personality and maybe the removal of the stick up his butt, but he was good at what he did.

Phil couldn't chase away the feeling that something was wrong. He circled the desk, trying to remember how he'd left it. Nothing immediately looked out of place. A couple of new files had arrived while he was out, but that wasn't unusual. Ward had been standing by a pile of notes related to a robbery case Phil would be prosecuting next month. It wasn't one of their joint cases, but it was possible, maybe, that he'd thought the transcripts had been mixed up with those notes. It wouldn't be the first time material from one case had been accidentally put with another, causing headaches for everyone involved.

It was a good explanation, but Phil couldn't make himself trust it.

He sat down and stared at his monitor as he sipped coffee that almost scalded his tongue. There was something wrong. Something else.

It came to him as he pulled his keyboard out to log on. His monitor was on and active, displaying the login screen. He'd turned his monitor off before he left the building this morning. He always did that. Even if he hadn't, it should have shown the screen saver, not a message to press CTRL-ALT-DEL.

Ward shouldn't have been close enough to nudge anything that would dismiss the screen saver.

Phil put his coffee cup down and reached for his phone.

***

The daytime bustle had faded away, leaving the building with that empty, hollow feeling it had late in the evening. Phil dumped the sack of food on his desk and sent a quick message.

A part of him was mourning the chance to sit at home, in his apartment, hoping that Clint would choose to drop in. It was probably a foolish hope. So far, Clint had never visited two evenings in a row. Not that two evenings in total could form a pattern, but...

It was better to be here, doing something useful, rather than sitting at home and waiting. It didn't matter how much he missed Clint, how much he wanted to keep doing whatever they were doing, there were more people to consider than just them. Clint would be the first person to tell him that.

Clint had been, when he first came to Phil with his problems.

Phil didn't know how his unsettled feeling around Ward related to his investigation into Insight Construction, but he could sense a connection there. Buried deep, but there was something to find, he was sure. And that meant that moping around his apartment like a love-struck teenager, as appealing as it was, had to take a back seat to everything else.

A knock on the door pulled him out of his introspection, and he looked up, a smile already forming.

Daisy's eyes lit up when she saw the paper bag. "Aw, you cooked, sir."

Phil rolled his eyes. "I hope you like Thai."

"I love Thai." Daisy grinned. "You definitely have the best bribes for favours."

"Really?"

"Best I usually get is doughnuts. Maybe an extra-large latte. You pay in real food."

"Maybe one day I'll actually cook."

Daisy chuckled as crossed the room to poke at the bag, conspicuously leaving the door open. Phil thought about pointing out that she was safe with him, safer than she was with most people, but some habits were too deeply ingrained.

She pulled out a carton of noodles and a fork. "So, what do you need tonight, boss? I'm still hitting walls on those police reports. It's like they were never entered in the system. I even talked to a friend over at one of the precincts, and he can't find the paper reports. There's a gap in file numbers, but the paperwork has disappeared."

"Can you tell whether someone has been tampering with my computer?" Phil asked.

Daisy's eyebrows shot up and she swallowed so fast, it was a miracle she didn't choke on anything. "Um, maybe. Why?"

"I'm not sure yet," Phil said. "I'm just getting a bad feeling."

"Okay, Obi-Wan. Let's take a look."

***

"You were right," Daisy said, after a lot of typing and a dedicated mission to steal whichever box of food Phil tried to eat.

Phil lowered his pad thai, but didn't release his grip on it. "I was?"

"Someone has been tampering with your computer," Daisy said. "There's some sophisticated monitoring software here. Good enough to fool the standard malware, anyway."

"Monitoring? Like key-logging?"

Daisy shrugged. "That and more. Whoever's using it could mirror your screen if they wanted to, see everything you're doing. Maybe even remote access it and take control."

"And I'd never know?"

"Not unless they took control while you're using it," Daisy said. She tapped at the keyboard and her eyebrows rose at the output on the monitor. It all looked like nonsense to Phil, but she understood it. "Looks like they had it set to ping a remote computer when you typed specific phrases."

"Can you see which phrases?"

"Give me a couple of minutes. This shit is good, but there's got to be a log somewhere."

Phil frowned and chewed some noodles thoughtfully. "Can you tell when it was installed?"

"Some time in the last couple of days," Daisy said. "Maybe even today."

The dark suspicion that had been growing in Phil's mind blossomed. "When today?"

"I only said maybe today. You'd need to leave me with this mess for a lot longer to pin that down. This stuff is good and it's disguising itself really well."

"How did it get there?"

Daisy tugged a half empty box of sweet and sour shrimp closer. "You're not the kind of guy who opens random attachments from strangers, right?"

Phil shook his head.

"And you don't surf porn at work." Daisy smirked at Phil's eye roll. "So, it was either sent to you from someone you know or it was installed by someone onsite. I'm pretty sure our firewall would have flagged this shit if it had come in from an external email, so that leaves internal mail."

"Whoever did it, works here," Phil said, his heart sinking.

"And knows you," Daisy said. "You don't open random attachments from people you do know, either, am I right? So it came in as something you were expecting and wanted. Or someone got to your machine."

"How hard would it be for someone to install it?"

"Not that hard," Daisy said. "Put it on a USB stick and plug it in. We all stay logged in and screen locked, but anyone who can write something like this can probably get around that security. I'm going to spend the next month telling our security people how to patch this kind of breach, aren't I?"

"Maybe," Phil said, thoughts whirling through his mind. "But maybe not yet."

"Boss?" Daisy's grin turned sly. "Are you thinking something that's going to make the DA's head explode when he hears about it?"

"It's possible." Phil nodded to the monitor. "Do you know which phrases they were watching for?"

Daisy bent her head and typed rapidly. Windows flashed up and disappeared, filled with code that Phil would never understand. After a few minutes of intense silence, Daisy let out a slow breath and sat back, grabbing her sweet and sour shrimp and shovelling a huge forkful into her mouth.

"What is it?" Phil asked.

Daisy swallowed. Her eyes were wide. "I think that I know why all the official reports on those addresses you gave me have been disappearing."

"Insight Consulting," Phil said quietly.

"Insight Consulting." Daisy gestured with her fork. "The phrases they're monitoring include that, and those addresses, and a bunch of other names that I've never seen before. They're trying to find out how much you know. If we've got a mole who can install this shit on your computer, they can probably screw with the computer records for everything else."

"If it's someone from our office," Phil said, "then maybe they're able to destroy the physical files, too."

"Or they've been able to pay off a couple of people in the police department," Daisy said. "I mean, if they're able to get someone in this office to turn double agent, they probably have the resources to buy a few officers, right?"

"Good point." A thought struck Phil. "Have they been monitoring what you're doing?"

Daisy shot him a withering glare. "Do I look that stupid? I turned off the key logging as soon as I knew it was there. They're in the dark."

"You didn't uninstall it, though."

"Not yet."

"Can you trace where the pings are going when I type one of those phrases?"

Daisy's eyes narrowed. "Maybe. Probably."

"Make that definitely and I'll buy you sushi next time."

"It's a deal."

***

The clock over Phil's mantelpiece seemed to glare at him when he finally got home, shortly before one am. He owed Daisy a fortune in sushi; she'd done what she promised. Or at least, she claimed it would work, and that was all he needed to feel hopeful.

She had been all for testing it immediately. Phil had argued that, no, it was best to wait. If anyone had noticed that the key logger had stopped and then the monitored phrases triggered a ping as soon as it turned on again, they might get suspicious.

Better to wait, show a normal day or two at work, before he started writing emails that would get their attention. If anyone looked at the logs, he wanted their attention well away from this evening. He wanted whoever was watching him to feel safe and secure while Daisy poked at their defences and tried to find them.

His eyes were gritty from staring at computer screens and his skin felt too tight. Restless, from hours of doing nothing at all.

The night was still warm, so Phil dumped his briefcase beside the sofa and walked over to the French doors, flinging them wide. The fresh air and the soft sounds of the city washed over him as he strode out onto the balcony and leaned against the railing. Bright lights stretching out for miles had their usual effect on him, calming the jitters and allowing him to breathe properly for the first time since that morning.

Since Clint had crept out at dawn.

Phil stared out at the city for a long time, his mind wandering. Where was Clint tonight? Was he out there, standing watch over the people threatened by Insight Construction?

Or was he in the tunnels, in the library, reading to a group of rapt children?

One day, Phil would like to see that. It was probably a beautiful sight, a dozen tiny faces staring up in wonder at Clint, as he read them a story about knights and adventure.

Maybe he could persuade Clint to take him down there again, one day. It might not be impossible to make this thing between them work, if they could figure out a way to share each other's worlds.

Phil sighed and turned away. As he moved towards the French doors, his eye was caught by something sitting on the chair he often read in on warm evenings.

It was a book. An old, leather-bound copy of _Persuasion_. Phil opened the front cover and found an inscription written in a careful hand that he instinctively knew was Clint's.

_Do you believe that, sometimes, life can be like a storybook? Because I want to._


	12. Chapter 12

Bruce's office was warm and stuffy. Clint shrugged out of his heavy cloak before sitting down. There were very few places where he felt comfortable enough to not need that reassuring weight of the hood against his back. His own quarters, this room...Phil's apartment, apparently, where he'd bared more than just his face.

A whole lot more.

Clint bit the inside of his mouth to force the goofy smile to die before Bruce could see it. There was almost no chance that Bruce didn't know at least part of what was going on, but he didn't have to know everything. There were some parts of this that Clint wanted to keep private.

All the parts to do with baring things and those amazing sounds Phil made when he came. Clint was going to keep those to himself forever. If this had been a normal life, he would have been in Phil's bed again, trying to provoke those sounds.

Except nothing about his life was normal. Leaving a book on Phil's balcony was as close to normal as he could get, and scaling the side of an apartment building probably wasn't something anyone else did.

Bruce limped across the room and sat down with a sigh. There were lines around his mouth, deeper than normal, which meant that his leg was bothering him. Clint wanted to ask, but he knew better. Bruce would force a gentle smile and pretend that everything was fine.

Maybe he was different with Natasha, in private. Clint hoped so. He hoped that he was right about where their relationship was heading. They both needed someone who could understand pain and nightmares in ways that he would never be able to.

"You've seen Fitz's latest plans," Bruce said.

Clint nodded. "They're...big."

"Too big," Bruce said. "We won't have time to finish before we need to get the tunnels sealed off."

"Do we have dates?"

"Nothing official, but Steve said we should be ready. The fire scared people. Most of that block has signed contracts now. The other buildings they're after aren't giving in yet, but they probably will when the cranes and bulldozers move in to start on the part Insight's bought."

"Damn."

"Exactly." Bruce pinched the skin above his nose. "I've told our people to start evacuating immediately. We'll get those tunnels cleared and closed down as soon as everyone is out. Fitz is working on scaling back his plans and focusing on the areas that are in danger, so his team will start work on hiding our presence and blocking off everything in a couple of days."

Clint swallowed. "The library?"

"Simmons is packing up the books. I'm sorry, Clint. We can't wait any longer. They could start clearing the land any day. The moment they dig down, we're exposed."

"The concert hall and most of that block hasn't sold out yet."

"They haven't, but everyone across the street has. Do you want to take the risk that they'll start digging and hit one of the tunnels before we finish securing everything?" Bruce shook his head. "We have to pull everyone out."

"The new living quarters haven't been started yet."

"It'll be cramped for a while, I know."

"I thought we'd have more time."

"So did I."

Clint fought down a growl. "Phil is close, I know he is."

Bruce winced. "I know you believe--"

"I can feel what he feels," Clint said. "He's worried, but something happened tonight. He's...hopeful. Excited."

"You can feel him?" Bruce straightened and his hand twitched towards a drawer. He was probably restraining the impulse to pull out a pen and paper to take notes. "How?"

"I don't know," Clint said. "It's weird. I can feel things and I know they're not me. They're him."

"You know what he's thinking?"

"Not exactly. Just...when he's feeling something strong. You know?"

Bruce shook his head. "I don't know. I've never heard of something like this."

Clint grinned. "That's what you've been saying ever since you found me."

"I'm starting to suspect that I'll keep saying it."

"You can take notes if you want," Clint said. "I know you're dying to."

Bruce rolled his eyes. "I don't write down everything."

"You're a scientist," Clint said. "It's in your blood. You need to write things down, just like Natasha needs to sharpen her knives, and Simmons likes to horrify people with dead things in formaldehyde."

"Are we really that predictable?"

Clint shrugged.

"You've formed some kind of bond with him," Bruce said, his eyes thoughtful. "You must have developed an extra sense to allow that to happen."

"You're the scientist."

"You break every rule I ever learned." Bruce sighed. "And I was a physicist, not a biologist. You could discuss it with Simmons. She's read everything we could get for her on human anatomy and physiology."

Clint snorted. "If it's all same to you, I think I'll take a pass. She's sweet, but she gets this look in her eyes, like she's trying to decide how much blood I can spare and whether she should question me or biopsy me first."

"She's a little single-minded sometimes."

"Worse than Fitz."

"Possibly."

"Definitely."

"This bond," Bruce said. "Can you feel what he's feeling now?"

Clint frowned and concentrated. All he could feel was a hint of warm contentment, so faint that he wouldn't have noticed it if he hadn't been thinking about it. "He's asleep, I think. Happy."

Bruce's eyebrows rose. "Oh?"

"Content," Clint said blandly, relieved that his thick hair covered his ears. They felt hot. He hoped that he wasn't blushing, although that had always been one of the human things that his strange face couldn't do in the past. "I guess whatever happened earlier is done now."

And Clint had been reading to the children since he got back from leaving his gift for Phil, so Bruce couldn't accuse him of causing Phil's 'happiness'. It wasn't that kind of feeling, anyway. Clint knew what that felt like, now that he really thought about it. There had been too many of his own emotions in the way before, but if he analysed it carefully, he could remember the extra wave of sensation that had ramped up his own orgasm until he felt like he was floating.

"Maybe he found something," Bruce said, apparently deciding to steer the conversation back to safer ground.

"I can go and see him tomorrow," Clint said. "Find out for sure."

"Clint." Bruce hesitated, before shaking his head, weary resignation painted across his face. "I don't want you to get hurt."

"I won't," Clint said. "Like I keep telling Nat, he won't hurt me."

Bruce's only reply was a soft hum and an unhappy twist to his lips, before he dragged out Fitz's latest designs and began pointing out new features.

***

Clint's stomach was churning when he swung onto Phil's balcony shortly after sunset. It didn't seem to matter how many times he recalled the warm smile on Phil's lips the last time they parted, he couldn't make the jitters go away.

What if Phil was regretting what they'd done?

What if Phil had realised that there were too many not-right things about Clint?

He might be able to sense some of what Phil felt, but that didn't stop the doubts assailing him. Clint couldn't read Phil's mind.

Couldn't connect the feelings with something specific.

The apartment was dark and still, so Clint curled up on the chair in the corner of the balcony to wait, his hood pulled up to hide his face and hair. The book was gone, which Clint tried to take as a positive sign. If Phil didn't want it, surely it would be sitting on the chair with a "Thanks, but no thanks" message tucked inside, right?

The sound of traffic below and the cool breeze lulled Clint into a light doze. 

He woke with a start, just before golden light flooded out of the French doors. Clint was still fuzzily trying to clear his eyes when the French doors opened and Phil stepped out.

Chair legs scraped as Clint stood up, almost knocking it over. Phil jumped and spun around, shifting into a defensive posture.

"It's only me," Clint said, pushing his hood back.

The tension drained out of Phil's stance and he straightened. "Sorry."

Clint shrugged. "I surprised you. Nice to see those self-defence lessons are working."

A small smile twitched at the corners of Phil's mouth. "I'm sure my instructor would be pleased to hear that."

Silence fell between them. Clint shuffled his feet and tried to think of something funny to say. He'd settle for soppily romantic, if funny didn't come, but his mind was empty of everything. Phil shoved his hands in his pockets and glanced down at his feet, before dragging his head up as though it was too heavy.

"So," Phil said.

"Yeah."

"Do you feel as awkward as I do?"

"Fuck, yeah," Clint said.

"I've never done this before," Phil said, removing a hand from his pocket to gesture between them, and then appearing not to know what to do with it. He put it back in his pocket. "Secret relationships and meeting on balconies, I mean. Are there signals I'm supposed to give? Do we shake hands and pretend that nothing is happening until we're unexpectedly having sex in my hallway?"

"I don't know," Clint said. "I've never done this before, either."

Phil tilted his head. "This, secret relationships, or...?"

"Secret relationships."

"Good, because you seemed to know what you were doing last time, and I was planning to be impressed at your instincts if I was your first."

"Third." Clint shrugged when Phil's eyebrows rose. "It's not like there's that many people wanting a piece of this. And nobody wants an actual relationship with someone they can't have coffee in public with, never mind take home to meet the family."

"I do," Phil said, his voice soft.

Clint's heart did a strange fluttery thing that he'd never experienced before. "Oh."

"I know that it's not going to be easy," Phil said, "but I'd like to try, if you would. Try for something real, I mean, not just a few quick fumbles in the dark. You mean too much for me to settle for that. Am I making any sense?"

"Yes," Clint said, surprised when his voice wobbled on the single syllable. There were too many feelings crowding his chest, constricting his throat, and most of them didn't make sense yet, except for this one thing: he wanted what Phil was asking for, more than he could express. 

"Yes, I'm making sense, or yes...?"

Clint swallowed. "Yes, you're making sense. And yes, I want to try for that. I don't know what we're doing, it might go really wrong, but when did that ever stop us from doing anything?"

"It doesn't seem to have stopped us lately," Phil said, a small smile warming his voice.

"Any idea what's supposed to happen in a secret relationship?"

"I've always had the impression that it involves a lot of lovelorn gazing, note passing, and soulful staring out of windows."

"I'm actually pretty good at all of those." Clint offered a small smile. "Can it involve something more physical, too? If we're going to spend all our time being soulful and missing each other, I'd like to have some good memories to hold onto when we're doing that part."

"I can probably manage that."

Phil tasted of coffee and mint, a combination that Clint showed his appreciation for with a quiet hum. More of a groan, probably, but Clint wasn't sure how he felt about admitting that something as simple as a kiss could make him react this way. He wasn't _that_ inexperienced, even if he'd, maybe, overplayed the full extent of what he'd done before. Phil might not count a few quick hand jobs behind the trailers when he was a kid, just before Bruce rescued him from the circus. He hadn't even been naked, just hands inside pants rubbing frantically until it ended in messy, unspectacular silence. What he and Phil had done together against the wall in Phil's hallway had been more intense, more real, than anything he'd done before.

Before Clint's mind could wander far, Phil did a thing with his tongue that sent want shivering down Clint's spine, and his thoughts scattered. He would feel embarrassed about the growl that escaped later, much later.

It wasn't as though it was the first time Phil had heard him growl.

Phil's hands tangled in Clint's hair, holding him in place to be thoroughly kissed, and Clint barely had enough restraint not to dig his nails into Phil's hips.

He definitely didn't have enough restraint to stop himself from pulling Phil closer, grinding against him in search of friction.

His breath was coming in short gasps when they finally parted for air, and Clint immediately buried his face in Phil's neck, mouthing at soft skin and breathing in his scent. He could feel Phil's arousal, in the lurking heat at the back of his mind and the tiny twitches under his hands.

"We should take this inside," Phil said, his breath ghosting across Clint's ear. "I'm not made for balcony sex anymore. I don't think I ever was."

Clint lifted his head and put on a mock pout. "Aw, no."

"Oh, yes," Phil said. "No balcony sex. Concrete doesn't feel good on bare skin."

"I guess it might be fun to try out horizontal sex on your bed this time."

"We could take our time. Sex against a wall is good, but it doesn't give much room for exploration."

Another shiver ran down Clint's spine. The promise in Phil's eyes at the idea of exploration, taking their time, almost drove away the flicker of worry at being so exposed. He'd been naked last time, obviously, but everything had been rushed and frantic in a shadowed hallway. Phil could still change his mind about wanting him.

As if Phil could sense Clint's worries, he leaned in and kissed Clint, soft and sweet. Some of the uncertainty faded away, retreating to the box where it always lurked at the back of Clint's mind. They were going to do this, sex and a relationship and everything that came with it, even though it was probably going to hurt one day.

***

Phil didn't turn on the light when he led Clint into his bedroom. The moonlight pouring in through the window was almost as bright as any lamp, more than enough to see by. He didn't want the reminder of the world outside that a harsh electric light would bring. It would intrude soon enough; why bring it into their lives earlier than he had to?

He turned to Clint, to ask something that he immediately forgot, chased away by the tense frown creasing Clint's brow.

"Are you all right?" Phil asked. "We can just talk if you're uncomfortable--"

The words were cut off by lips on his, a hard press of mouths and teeth that spoke of desperation as much as want. Phil almost pulled back, but he rethought the idea, instead trying to soften and gentle the kiss until he could feel some of the tension bleeding away from Clint's frame. The heat that had been simmering low in his gut tried to roar up, but Phil refused to allow it to take control. Something was worrying Clint, and he wasn't going to allow his own wants to take precedence over Clint's comfort.

If they needed to slow things down, he'd go slow. Take as long as they needed. Clint's comments about his own desirability hadn't gone unnoticed.

When Clint slowly pulled back, the frown was gone, but the lines around his eyes were still deep, and there was an unsettling flatness to his lips.

"What's wrong?" Phil asked, keeping his voice low.

Clint shrugged. "It's bright in here."

"Is that a problem?"

Another shrug.

After a long pause, Clint said, "You might not want to see so well."

Phil tilted his head. "I've seen you naked before, you know."

"It wasn't that bright, and we were kind of in a hurry. You didn't _see_ see, you know?"

"I got a pretty good look at all the important stuff," Phil said, a smile to escape. "The light from the bathroom showed me enough, before we moved out of range. Why do you think I jumped you at that particular moment?"

"Everything about it is kind of fuzzy. You blew my mind."

A dozen different jokes immediately begged for attention, but Phil quashed them all.

"I definitely jumped you." He cleared his throat. "I apologise for that, by the way."

"No, don't! Never apologise. It was good. I wouldn't have had the courage to do it."

Phil didn't believe that, but he bit the words back. He reached up and brushed shaggy hair away from Clint's face, cupped his jaw and rubbed his thumb over the corner of Clint's mouth. "Nothing about you repulses me. Nothing could. It's exactly the opposite, actually." He leaned in closer, letting his lips brush Clint's ear. "I'd like to prove that, if I can."

"Oh."

There was a breathless quality to Clint's voice that was reassuring, implying that Clint hadn't rejected the idea of sex completely.

Phil eased back and dropped his hands to the clasp of Clint's cloak. He waited until Clint nodded, before unsnapping it and pushing it off Clint's shoulders. The wide sleeves slid away easily and it pooled at Clint's heels on the floor. He lifted the end of the laces holding Clint's shirt closed and waited again. Clint's nod came more slowly this time, but it came.

The knot loosened reluctantly and Phil leaned in to press a kiss to the skin revealed at the V of the opening. Clint inhaled sharply. Phil widened the gap in his shirt and trailed kisses lower, down the centre of his chest, until fabric stopped him. He stepped back and raised an eyebrow.

Clint stripped out of his shirt with only the barest hesitation. His messy hair tumbled forward, hiding his face, but Phil could feel the intensity of the look Clint directed at him. He stroked a hand down Clint's arm, smiling at the muscles that twitched and flexed under his fingers.

"Definitely not repulsed," Phil said.

Clint lifted one shoulder. The movement did some interesting things to the muscles under his skin, which Phil had the sudden urge to feel against his tongue. They were heavier muscles than Phil had seen on anyone before, and downy hair covered skin that should have been smooth, but Clint was beautiful in a way that Phil couldn't describe. Beautiful, perfect, and watching Phil with a shy uncertainty that Phil couldn't resist.

He stepped closer and caught Clint's mouth in a deep kiss.

The kiss was messy and filthy, as perfect as Clint. Phil flattened his hands on Clint's back, pulling him close and relishing the warmth under his palms. He wanted skin against skin again, craved it the way he had the last time, but Clint was making delicious sounds and rubbing against him as though the feel of Phil's jacket against his naked chest was all he needed.

Phil peeled a hand away from Clint's back and inserted it between them, brushing his thumb over an erect nipple. Clint rewarded him with a gasp.

He scratched a nail lightly over Clint's nipple and the gasp was accompanied by a twitch of Clint's hips, his hard length brushing against Phil's matching arousal. He pulled out of the kiss to catch his breath and dropped his hands to the waistband of Clint's pants. This time, there was no hesitation before Clint nodded. 

Phil fumbled with the belt, his fingers suddenly clumsy as though he'd never done this before. With anyone else, he might have felt embarrassed, but not with Clint. Never with Clint.

Even when Clint's pants tangled with the boots they'd forgotten about, Phil laughed and knelt to fix the mess instead of worrying that he'd ruined everything. Clint's heated gaze did nothing to make his hands steadier, but it didn't matter. They figured everything out eventually, and then Clint was stepping free of his clothes and Phil's breath caught in his throat.

Bathed in silver moonlight, Clint was magnificent. His thick cock stood out proudly, the light glinted on the downy hair, and shadows hinted at the dips in his impressive musculature that Phil wanted to explore forever.

Clint started to say something, stopped, and tilted his head. He seemed to discard a couple more comments, before settling on, "You don't want to run away yet, then?"

Phil shook his head. "Definitely not."

"Even though..."

"Your differences are what make you who you are." Phil pressed a hand against Clint's chest, feeling the solid thump of his heart against his palm. "I want you exactly as you are right now."

"You're probably going to need to remind me regularly."

"I'll enjoy it," Phil said, smiling. "I'm feeling a little overdressed, though."

"You should probably do something about that," Clint said.

"That's what I was thinking."

Clint moved away and crossed his arms over his chest, shaking his hair back so that Phil could see him watching. There was a mischievous glint in his eye that Phil hadn't seen before, and a challenge to his stance that Phil wanted to respond to.

The challenge shifted to something hotter as Phil slowly stripped. He didn't show off, didn't try to put on a show. He wasn't revealing anything special, but the way that Clint looked at him and convulsively swallowed sent heat threading through his veins. Was this how he'd made Clint feel each time he caught a glimpse of Clint's naked form? This heart-stopping anticipation, warmth pooling in his gut, just from the expression in his eyes?

He hoped it was.

Clint's eyes dropped when Phil stepped out of the tangled mess of his pants and underwear. He left the clothes where they were, ignoring the future wrinkles for once, and crossed over to sit on the edge of the bed. Phil felt Clint's gaze follow him, like sun against his skin, threatening to sear him even as it thrilled him.

He held out a hand. Clint nodded, that hint of uncertainty appearing again. But he walked across the room slowly, steadily, and grasped Phil's hand, palm to palm, twining their fingers together. He seemed fascinated by that sight, lifting their joined hands to study them.

"I could hurt you," he said. "I'm all sharp bits and too strong bits."

"You didn't hurt me last time," Phil said.

Clint turned their hands one way and then the other, apparently fascinated by the contrast between them. "You made sure I didn't. And we didn't do anything I've never done before."

A flash of guilt crossed his face. Phil leaned forward and kissed his hip, trying to reassure him through touch and hide any surprise he might be showing at the same time. So Clint's experience wasn't extensive. They'd already established that.

He sucked lightly on the warm skin under his lips, smiling against Clint's hip at the strangled grunt that produced.

Clint was staring at him with wide eyes when he leaned back slightly. Wide eyes and an open mouth, shock and arousal mixed on his face.

"You'll be fine," Phil said, squeezing his hand. "I trust you."

It was the right thing to say; he suddenly had a lapful of Clint, straddling his thighs and kissing him with intent. He allowed Clint to bear him backward, press him into the bed, and groaned when the movement brought their cocks together, heated flesh meeting and sending sparks through his body. Clint ground down instinctively and it could all have been over in a very short frenzy of shifting hips, but Phil didn't want that. Not this time.

He wanted to make it slower, better. Kiss every part of Clint's body and show him that he was wanted exactly the way he was.

Phil braced himself and flipped them both over, breaking the kiss. Clint blinked up at him from the bed, sprawled out beautifully, and Phil couldn't resist ducking down for one more taste of his mouth before moving down to his hips. Phil held himself up on hands and knees, trying to ignore the ache in his groin, and wordlessly encouraged Clint to slide higher on the bed.

Clint frowned at him but he complied easily. He seemed to be willing to try anything if Phil asked him, which was a thought Phil pushed away firmly before it could take root. 

Moonlight clung to the fine tawny hair that covered Clint's body. It darkened over his belly, arrowing down to the courser stuff at the base of his cock. Phil kissed the side of Clint's chest, barely a brush of lips, and Clint made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a giggle.

"Sorry," Clint said, "That tickled."

Phil grinned. "I'll make sure to remember that for another time."

"You're evil when you've got me in your bed, aren't you?"

He didn't dignify that with a response, unless diving in to swipe his tongue across Clint's nipple counted. The sound Clint made this time was definitely closer to a groan. Phil blew lightly across the damp skin and Clint gasped.

Every noise Clint made was addictive, compelling, and Phil wanted to hear them all. He would document them, etch them into his memory, just in case a time came when he couldn't hear them anymore. The gasp when he licked and blew across a nipple. The moan when he sucked on it and allowed his teeth to lightly graze it.

The sighs when he kissed his way down Clint's arms, with particular attention to the soft, bare skin inside his elbows and at his wrists. 

The grunt when his lips trailed low on Clint's belly.

The sharp inhalation when he kissed the inside of Clint's thigh.

The whimper when he allowed his mouth to linger at the crease of Clint's thigh, tasting the delicate skin and breathing in the musky scent.

The strangled moan when he took Clint's cock in his mouth.

Phil kept his eyes focused on Clint's face as he licked and sucked, tracing the head with his tongue and caressing the shaft with his hand so that there was no inch left untouched. Clint made obscene noises at each new sensation, apparently torn between throwing his head back, arching into it, and watching what Phil was doing.

Each time their eyes met, it was like electricity racing down Phil's spine. He tried to make it good, tried to use every trick he knew to ramp up the pleasure, because this was Clint and he deserved the best. If Phil could figure out a way, they'd do this as often as they could. Every night, maybe, one day in the future. They'd learn each other's bodies, learn how to play their senses until they sung, and this moment when Clint fell over the edge with a roar wouldn't need to be memorised.

It would be something Phil got to watch as often as they could manage it.

He didn't pull away when Clint came, swallowing greedily, and loving the way Clint's entire body seemed to reflect the pleasure he was feeling.

When Clint batted him away clumsily, clearly over-sensitive, Phil reluctantly released his softening cock and crawled up the bed to flop down beside him. Clint turned his head, a lazy smile transforming his severe expression into something that might almost be...goofy.

Phil promised himself not to tell Clint how he looked until later. Much later.

"Hey," Clint said, his voice sounding raw.

Phil's didn't sound any better when he said, "Hey, yourself."

"That was..." Clint flapped a hand. "You know?"

"Not terrible?"

Clint tried to look severe, but it didn't work with the smile he still wore. "So far from terrible, I don't have words. Did you...are you...?"

"You can use the words, you know," Phil said. "I promise not to blush."

Clint didn't use his words, but his hand curling around Phil's cock probably answered the question he'd been trying to articulate. Phil hissed and unconsciously thrust into the warm palm squeezing just right around his aching cock.

"Huh," Clint said. "You didn't."

"Not yet," Phil said.

"Do you want to fuck me?"

Phil gritted his teeth and forced his hips to stay still. Coming like a teenager just because someone offered something he'd been having fantasies about wasn't going to happen. It wasn't.

"I'd love to," Phil said. "But not tonight."

"Why not?"

Phil reached over and stroked Clint's soft, damp cock. It twitched under his hand, but it wasn't going to be ready for anything more for a good while yet.

"Just because I can't--"

Phil cut him off. "The first time we do that, I want you to enjoy it as much as I do. More, actually. I want you to come so hard, you feel like you're flying."

With a shy smile, Clint said. "Think you already did that for me tonight."

"It can be better."

Clint swallowed. "Okay. That is something to aim for, I guess."

"I thought so."

"But in the meantime, you're still hanging out there, and that's got to be getting uncomfortable now."

"I'll be fine," Phil said. "I can--"

This time, it was Clint who cut him off, but with a kiss rather than words. An uncoordinated kiss, as though his body hadn't caught up with his brain yet, but it made heat stir in Phil's belly. He gasped against Clint's lips when Clint stroked his cock, the heat and friction sending pleasure rushing through his body until his toes curled.

Then Clint's lips were gone; Clint was gone, squirming down the bed until his head was level with Phil's hips. He licked his lips and Phil couldn't stifle a groan.

"I haven't had much practice at this," Clint warned. "Any tips?"

He probably hadn't ever done it before, Phil knew that, but he didn't call Clint out on the overstatement of his experience. All he said was, "Try not to bite down. Teeth are an advanced level course that you're probably not ready for."

"No teeth. No biting." Clint leaned up and pushed Phil over onto his back. He narrowed his eyes, staring down at Phil's cock, which twitched under the scrutiny. Phil bit back a chuckle.

"How do I avoid teeth?" Clint asked.

Phil propped himself up on his elbows so that he could watch. "Use your hands, don't try to take everything in at once. Actually, don't try to suck down if you're not comfortable. Licking is good. Licking works."

"Don't try to do it all," Clint said, as though taking notes. "Got it."

He promptly ignored all the advice by plunging down and wrapping his lips around the head of Phil's cock with more enthusiasm than skill, but no teeth grazing anything sensitive. Phil collapsed back against the bed with an unrestrained groan, overwhelmed by the warm wetness engulfing him.

There was no finesse to Clint's work, no skill, but his clumsiness and experiments were arousing rather than off-putting. He wanted to taste everything, try anything. He brought Phil close to the edge and backed off, freeing Phil's cock with an obscene pop to bury his face in the soft skin low on Phil's belly. The frustration and need bled together into a cocktail that tried to steal Phil's mind, turn him into a moaning lump of sexual desperation.

Clint spent hours--or maybe only minutes, or possibly years--trailing kisses down Phil's hip and running his tongue down the crease of his thigh. Warm air puffed over wet skin and Phil grabbed the sheets to keep himself from grabbing Clint's hair and pulling him back where he needed him most.

When Clint's mouth closed around Phil's cock again, the warm wetness and the look he gave Phil from under his lashes were all it took. Pleasure rolled up from Phil's toes, curled under his spine, and flowed into every muscle. He couldn't keep his eyes open and his back arched without his command. Someone seemed to be making a lot of noise and he realised, as the shudders of his orgasm died away, that those sounds had come from his throat.

His eyelids felt too heavy to lift, but he forced them open anyway, in time to see Clint touching a finger to his belly and tasting with a curious frown. Clint grimaced, and Phil chuckled.

"It's an acquired taste," he said. "Some people never like it."

Clint wiped his finger on the sheet and crawled up the bed, rolling onto his side so Phil could see his face.

"I guess that I did okay?" Clint said.

Phil smiled. "So okay that I can't imagine what you'll do with practice."

"Practice sounds good."

"It can be."

Clint put his hand on Phil's chest, and Phil instinctively covered it with his own. He met Clint's gaze and his breath caught in his throat.

"We're going to do this," Clint said. "Not just practice. We're going to do it for real."

"Yes," Phil said immediately.

"You don't mind?"

"Don't mind?"

Clint's fingers twitched, but he didn't pull away. "That we'll never go to restaurants or walk by the river, unless it's Halloween."

"Restaurants aren't everything."

"But I--"

Phil stretched up and cut him off with a quick, hard kiss. "Being with someone isn't about restaurants and walks by the river. They're the window-dressing. The part that's worthwhile is the time together, and I want as much of that as I can get, whether it's here or Down Below."

Relief and something more, something so intense it should have hurt, shone in Clint's eyes. "I've never met anyone like you."

Phil wanted to protest, but under that gaze, he couldn't. All he could do was raise Clint's hand to his lips and press a kiss to Clint's palm. The sharp intake of breath and the heat in Clint's eyes might have led to something more, if he'd had any energy left.

The moment was broken by Clint's huge yawn. His expression was sheepish when it was over, but Phil smiled.

"How do you feel about cleaning up and then sleeping?" Phil asked.

"I feel really good about it," Clint said, and yawned again.

***

Phil's bed really was comfortable to sleep in, almost as good as Clint's bed down below. It didn't have the array of cushions and blankets he'd collected over the years, but he had Phil to curl against, so who needed them?

The sky was still dark when Clint woke, but he could feel dawn not far off. The temptation to close his eyes and pretend nothing existed beyond the apartment walls was tempting, but his sense of danger was stronger. The longer he stayed here, the more likely it was that someone might find him. If he stayed past dawn, he wouldn't be able to leave until tonight.

A day lounging in bed with Phil wouldn't be awful--it would be amazing, probably--but it wasn't safe here.

Maybe he could bring Phil home one night. One weekend, even. They wouldn't have to leave Clint's quarters.

Phil must have sensed that he was awake, because he stirred and his eyes blinked open.

Clint lifted his head from the comfortable place he'd been pillowing it on Phil's chest. "Good morning."

"Morning." Phil's hair was sleep-rumpled and his eyes were sleepy. He was perfect. "What time is it?"

"Late. Early. I have to go soon."

Phil nodded.

"I was only supposed to be here for a few minutes," Clint said. "You found something, didn't you?"

Surprise widened Phil's eyes. "Something, yes. How did you know?"

Clint took a deep breath and sat up. He'd told two people so far, but they were both people who were used to him and his strange abilities that could develop out of nowhere. Phil sometimes seemed to forget that there was anything unusual about Clint, despite his appearance. There was no way to pretend or hide it, though. Not if they were going to be something more than a casual hook-up, sampling the forbidden.

"I could feel it," Clint said. "There's some kind of...bond between us. I can't read your mind, but I know when you're afraid or hurting, or happy."

The only change in Phil's expression was a small line between his brows, which Clint recognised as his thinking face, not anger. "A bond. Is that something you do?"

"Apparently."

"Is it a sex thing?"

Clint snorted. "Definitely not. It's been there since you left the tunnels."

"Oh."

Phil sat up, rubbing a hand over his fluffy hair, smoothing it down. Clint resisted the temptation to reach out and ruffle. Phil hadn't run away from any of the other weird things about Clint, but that didn't mean he wouldn't find a weirdness he couldn't cope with, so it was probably best to stay really still and look unthreatening. Or as unthreatening as Clint could, with his inhuman face and sharp not-quite-claws.

"Is this getting too weird for you?" Clint asked.

"It should be," Phil said. "But apparently it isn't. I guess when you start having feelings for a guy who lives in tunnels and sometimes growls, a bond feels almost normal."

"When you put it that way..."

Clint trailed off, unsure what he was supposed to say next. Phil solved the problem for him by leaning forward and kissing him thoroughly. It was the best possible way to get past awkward revelations, Clint decided, as he returned the kiss with enthusiasm.

***

Clint knew he was playing with fire, staying so late, but he couldn't run out as soon as he could see straight. His entire body seemed to have turned into a limp noodle, thanks to Phil's amazing talent for finding all the most sensitive, toe-curlingly wonderful places to kiss him. Clint wasn't sure that his contributions were up to the same standard, but Phil's responses seemed to indicate that he wasn't terrible at this.

As long as he was careful about where he used his sharp nails.

It was Phil who sat up after a few minutes, dislodging Clint just as he was drifting into a satisfied doze.

"The sun will be up soon," Phil said. "You have to go."

"Aw, sun, no," Clint mumbled, rolling over to bury his head in a pillow that held Phil's scent.

"Sun, yes," Phil said, and poked him in a distinctly non-sexy way.

Clint sighed and rolled onto his back. "You could call in sick, close all the curtains and refuse to answer the door. It might be safe."

Phil shook his head. "There's something I have to do today."

"Something more important than this?" Clint waved a hand, the gesture taking in the bed and the clothes strewn across the floor. "I could be insulted."

"Something that might finally give us a lead on Insight Construction."

Clint sat up. "That's what you were talking about, before we got distracted?"

"Yes."

Phil's explanation was confusing, about computers and programs and lists, but Clint managed to gather the basics. He'd seen computers, of course, but he'd never used one. Nobody in the tunnels had one; the power was too unreliable.

Clint didn't really understand how a computer could be set up to watch for certain words, but he trusted that Phil knew what he was talking about. Or at least, that Phil's friend Daisy did, and Phil understood what she was doing with the information.

"You can find the people who are watching you?" Clint asked, leaning down to grab his pants from the floor. "Computers work that way?"

"Daisy can," Phil said.

Clint yanked the pants on and stood up. His shirt was hanging off a mirror and he thought his cloak was probably somewhere in the living room. He pulled on his shirt and peered around, searching for his vest. "What are you going to do after you find them?"

"That depends a lot on what I find," Phil said, making no effort to get up or pretend he wasn't watching Clint appreciatively. "When I have an address, I'll make a plan."

"You'll tell me," Clint said, bending down to look under a chair. He possibly put a little extra bend in the motion, just to hear the sharply indrawn breath behind him. "You're not going there alone."

"I'm not stupid," Phil said, his voice all angles and sharpness. "I work for the DA. When I have an address, I'll go to him."

Clint straightened up, holding his vest. "I didn't mean...I know you're not stupid. I know you wouldn't march into something without a plan. That's my thing. You're smarter than that."

"But you worry," Phil said, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Clint shrugged. "Maybe."

"I'm flattered."

Clint crossed the room in two long strides. He leaned down and kissed Phil, hard, their noses bumping and Phil's breath ghosting across Clint's cheek.

"I'm no good at this," Clint said, when he pulled back just far enough to meet Phil's eyes. "The thought of finding you cut to ribbons again scares the shit out of me, okay? I know you now. You're not just some guy who got dumped in the middle of my snack run. You're more than that."

"I'll be careful," Phil said. "I promise."

Clint nodded and kissed him again. The sky was steel-grey when he slipped over the edge of Phil's balcony and scrambled to his safe haven.


	13. Chapter 13

"Are you still sure about this?" Daisy asked.

Phil nodded, face set. The boxes from tonight's takeout--burrito bowls and too many nachos--were scattered across his desk, with Daisy's laptop occupying the only clear space. It was very clearly not issued by the DA's office, and equally clearly, she'd figured out how to hook it into the network anyway.

"I won't gain anything if we wait," Phil said.

Daisy nodded. "They might find the modifications I've made to your machine if we wait too long. Have you figured out who did it yet?"

"I have some ideas."

"Nothing you want to share?"

"Not yet."

Not until he'd had time to dig around and find out how deep Ward was in whatever was going on. He might not like Ward much, but he didn't like the idea of throwing him under the bus if he hadn't really been involved. Everything might just be coincidence.

The soft laughter in the back of his mind sounded a lot like Clint's. Phil hoped it was just his imagination and not another previously unknown talent that Clint had developed. He was fairly sure it wasn't; Clint didn't seem like the kind of guy who would lurk in the back of his mind and laugh. He'd be a little more obvious about his presence.

"What do I need to do?" Phil asked, pushing thoughts of Clint away.

"Type something," Daisy said. "Something you'd normally type, if you were investigating a shady construction company. Make it look natural, but make sure you include a couple of mentions of Insight Construction. I'll do the rest."

"Make it look natural," Phil said under his breath. "Huh."

He logged into the computer and thought for a minute, before opening up his email. For a few minutes, he quietly sent emails that had nothing to do with Insight Construction. They were all real, all emails connected to cases he was working on, just in case someone tried to look back at records of what he'd been doing before the alert arrived. Then he opened a new email and sat back for a minute.

"What's wrong?" Daisy asked.

"Nothing." Phil straightened his keyboard so that it lined up with the edge of the desk. "If I'm going to send an email to Fury about Insight, I would probably hesitate before committing."

"Sneaky. I like it."

Allowing a small smile to escape, Phil bent his head and began typing. It was a short email, only a few lines. A request to talk to Fury about some reports he'd received on Insight Construction and their methods. Nothing concrete, nothing that Fury could act on yet, only a request for a meeting and a promise to explain more when they met. He signed his name and hovered the cursor over the send button, but didn't press it.

"Bingo," Daisy said, her voice soft as she began tapping rapidly at her keyboard. "Tracing the ping."

"Do I need to keep typing?" Phil asked.

"Not yet. I'm nearly there."

"Okay."

Daisy glared at her laptop screen and typed faster, muttering under her breath too softly for Phil to make out.

After several minutes, she released a long breath and sat back, stretching out her fingers. "I've got an address."

"Where?"

She tapped a few keys, and her frown deepened. "Didn't you use to work here?"

When she turned her laptop around to allow Phil to see the screen, his heart sank. The dot flashing on a map was pointing to a familiar address.

"Yes," he said, feeling strangely numb. "I did work there. Is there any chance there's been a mistake?"

"I kind of wish there was, but that's where the data was going."

Phil nodded. There was a low buzzing sound in his ears and he was aware that his face had gone blank, but he couldn't seem to make it frown or smile or do anything that might be a normal reaction. Worry darkened Daisy's eyes and a distant part of him wanted to reassure her, but the words wouldn't form. He left the email on his screen and locked it before standing.

"Where are you going?" Daisy asked.

"I have to talk to someone."

"Is that a good idea?"

"Probably not, but I have to do it."

"I'll call someone. I'll call Fury, tell him what's happening."

That shook some of the numbness away for a moment. Phil tightened his lips. "No, don't. I just need to talk to him. He won't hurt me."

"I guess you know him best."

"I do." The blankness fell again, dulling the hurt lurking in Phil's chest. "You should go home and get some sleep. I'll probably need you tomorrow, if there's anything to go to Fury with."

Daisy didn't look happy, but all she could do was nod. "Okay, boss, you got it. See you tomorrow."

Phil waited until she'd gone before picking up his briefcase and putting it down again almost immediately. He shouldn't look official. He was only a friend dropping by for a drink. It wasn't late, so it wouldn't look odd. He grabbed his wallet and keys, but some instinct that he didn't want to examine stopped him from locking his office as he left. 

***

The floor of the tall building that Phil's old law practice had operated out of for ten years was unusually dark and still. When Phil had worked here, there had always been at least a few associates working late into the night, and usually a couple of junior partners, too. It had been an unspoken rule that hard work was rewarded, and that meant late nights and Saturdays in the office, at a bare minimum.

Garrett's office was the only one with lights on.

The sight made Phil's stomach sink, even though a part of him had been preparing for this moment. Garrett was doing something he didn't want any juniors to see.

Phil walked quickly, trying to pretend that the dark offices and dim hallways weren't unnerving him. Where was everyone?

At the end of the hallway, Garrett's office door opened, and a man with greying red hair walked out. He was carrying a thin file and appeared to be deep in thought. Phil nodded to him as they passed each other, but the man ignored him.

Garrett's door was ajar when Phil reached it. He knocked anyway. There was a note of surprise in Garrett's voice when he called for Phil to come in.

It was only as Phil stepped into the room that he realised Garrett had used his name. How had Garrett known?

Garrett was sitting behind his desk, holding a glass of whiskey. Another glass sat next to a bottle in front of him.

"Do you remember when we used to sit up all night preparing motions?" Garrett asked. "You always refused to drink when we had important work to do."

"And you always said that the work got done faster if we had a glass in our hands."

Garrett shrugged. "Faster. Better. Something like that."

"I still don't drink when I've got important work to do," Phil said, sitting down and ignoring the bottle.

"Your loss."

"Not really." Phil resisted the urge to wipe his hands on his pants. "You knew I was coming."

"I suspected."

"Why?"

"Why?" Garrett tilted his head. "Why did I know? Why did I do it?"

"What have you done?" Phil asked.

"I thought you already knew."

"Not for sure."

Garrett took a sip of whiskey. "You really are missing something, Phil. This is a fine bottle."

"What have you done?"

"Nothing that deserves that look on your face," Garrett said. "We're a full-service law firm, remember? Everything I've done was to protect my client and promote his interests. It's what we do."

"Insight Construction," Phil said.

"They're one of my clients," Garrett said, smiling agreeably. "You just missed the CEO."

"We couldn't find anything on him."

Garrett beamed. "I'm good, aren't I? All those holding companies and shell companies. All those layers. I built that for them, you know."

"Ward set the bug on my computer, didn't he?"

"Did you think I just let such a promising young man walk away and join your team? He was there because I needed someone there. He's very loyal and very, very good at what he does. How did you find that, by the way?"

"I have a better hacker than you do."

"Give me a name and I'll make sure he has a future here."

"I don't think she'd fit in."

"Pity." Garrett's pout was mocking and made Phil's skin crawl. "When you resurfaced, you nearly derailed some of my work. I was almost grateful that you wanted to leave the partnership, until you went over to the DA."

A terrible thought struck Phil. It was too cruel, too vile to even think about, but somehow he knew that he was right.

"It was you," Phil said. "You sent those men after me."

Garrett nodded.

"Why?"

"You saw something," Garrett said. "And I know how your mind works. You would have kept picking at it and thinking about it, so I needed to distract you, before you started unpicking everything I've been doing."

"Distract me?" Phil had to pause and swallow down the bile rising in his throat. "They almost killed me. Do you have any idea how painful it is to have your face cut to ribbons?"

Garrett shrugged. "It's the price of doing business."

"Not in my world."

"In every world."

"That's not a world that I want to live in." Memories were flooding in. Phil had seen something. It had niggled at the back of his mind all day, until the party and the attack had driven it away. There had been a file...Pierce Holdings. Subsidiaries. A contract. The file that should have been on Garrett's desk. "This was all over the file I saw?"

"What else? You're a smart guy, Phil. You're putting the pieces together, connecting the dots. It wouldn't have taken you long to start digging, and I couldn't afford to let you do that."

"I thought you wanted me to meet with Pierce at the party."

"I knew which way the wind was blowing when you refused, and I couldn't let you ruin everything."

"Please tell me this isn't just about money."

"It's not." Garrett's grin was toothy and too wide. "The money isn't something I could walk away from, but Pierce has ideas. He's going to reshape this city into something better, one piece at a time. That little neighbourhood you're so worried about doesn't do any good to anyone. The complex we're building? It will provide jobs. Housing. Isn't that what this city needs?"

"It's a good neighbourhood," Phil said. "The people are good. They're doing things with it, making it better. You're destroying their chance to make something out of their lives."

"I'm making a lot of money for a lot of people. The kind of people who don't need to make something out of their lives, because they're already something."

"That doesn't--"

Phil didn't finish the sentence. A crashing pain erupted at the back of his skull, and as he slowly slumped and slid off the chair, he had enough time to look up and see the man who had hit him.

Ward's impassive face was the last thing Phil registered before he was sucked down into the blackness of unconsciousness.


	14. Chapter 14

Clint woke up with his heart hammering in his chest, fighting the blankets that had wrapped around him. It took him a minute to free his arms and sit up. His breath was coming too fast and his heart was still beating too hard.

The room was quiet. There was no threat lurking in the shadows, but every instinct he had was on alert, urging him to get up and fight or run. He couldn't even figure out which he was supposed to do.

With shaking fingers, Clint lit an oil lamp and peered around, verifying that he really was alone and his excellent night vision hadn't lied.

The room was empty.

According to the clock on his desk, it was late evening. He'd slept longer than he intended to, but he hadn't slept much the previous night, and Natasha had cornered him when he crept home just after dawn. His eyes felt gritty from too little sleep.

It had been worth it. Phil was...

Clint frowned. The sense of presence in the back of his mind that he'd grown to label "Phil" was wrong. Not gone, but muted. Even when Phil was asleep, he didn't feel absent. There was usually a sense of sleepy contentment. Sometimes, a dull fear, which Clint had learned was a sign that Phil was having nightmares.

He didn't normally have to strain to find Phil's shadow at the back of his mind.

Something was wrong. Very wrong. That was what had woken Clint: a sharp spike of fear and then the terrible absence.

Clint started moving before he'd consciously chosen to do it. He dressed fast, almost tearing his shirt when his hands caught in the sleeves, and slung his cloak around his shoulders as he ran out of his quarters.

Bruce was where Clint expected to find him, frowning down at papers on his desk. Natasha sprawled on a sofa nearby, sharpening one of her knives, but she sat up as soon as Clint stalked in.

"What's wrong?" she asked. "Is it Phil?"

"How did you...?" Clint shook his head, dismissing the thought. Natasha knew because she was Natasha, and she knew him better than anyone else. "I can barely feel him. Something's happened."

Bruce lifted his head, a frown creasing his brow. "Are you sure he's alive?"

Natasha raised her eyebrow. "You knew about this development?"

"Yes."

"And you didn't tell me?"

"I assumed you knew." Bruce's mouth twitched into one of his almost-smiles. "He wouldn't tell me something he hadn't already told you."

Clint glared. "Can we discuss who knew what later? Something has happened to Phil."

"Is he alive?" Bruce asked.

"I think so."

"Can you tell where he is?" Natasha asked, her eyes intent.

"Why would I be able to do that?"

Natasha slowly sheathed her knife. "Why would you be able to feel him at all? Just try. Close your eyes and think about him."

Clint obeyed. After a moment, he muttered, "I feel ridiculous."

"Clint."

"Okay, okay, I'm trying." He frowned. "You know this probably isn't going to work."

"Clint."

The steel in her voice was sharp and fierce. Clint didn't dare to open his eyes and check, but he was sure Bruce was probably holding back laughter.

He straightened his shoulders and concentrated, trying to remember the exercises they used to do when he was learning to control the fits of rage that had made him dangerous to be around at times. Bruce had been more patient with him than he deserved. Of course, Bruce had almost as many anger issues as Clint, and none of them were driven by a strange body that nobody understood. 

Or at least, he'd never told Clint they were.

Clint breathed in and out slowly, carefully, measuring each breath against the world around him and the noise inside his head. After a while, his heart stopped hammering in his chest, and he could breathe without wanting to howl. The whirling thoughts confusing his mind calmed and time stretched out like taffy.

Something tugged at his mind, so faintly that Clint might have dismissed it as nothing if he hadn't been listening so hard. It wasn't a thought, nothing that concrete. It wasn't even the usual low hum of feeling that he associated with Phil. There was just a slight tug, a sense that he needed to turn his head a little to the right and start walking.

"He's in that direction," Clint said, opening his eyes and pointing. "I don't know how far away."

"That narrows things down a little," Natasha said. "Bruce?"

"We've got most of our people working on the evacuation and tear-down plans," Bruce said.

"Bruce, he's in danger," Clint said. "He tried to help us and something went wrong."

Bruce nodded. "I can pull a few people off to start looking, but it's a big area. I could pull everyone off and we still might not find him."

"Thank you," Clint said.

"Did he tell you anything about where he might be going?" Natasha asked.

"No, but he did--" Clint broke off as a new thought hit him. Something real, concrete. "Nat, can you still find people?"

Natasha frowned. "That depends on who I'm finding."

"Someone who works with Phil," Clint said. "I have an idea."

"I hate when you use that phrase," Natasha said.

"It does seem to come before a bad plan," Bruce said, with a small smile.

***

The hallway in the apartment building was dimly lit and utilitarian. One door had an optimistic welcome mat in front of the door, but everyone else seemed to have admitted that the hallways in this building would never be anything except depressing.

"Are you sure this is the right address?" Simmons asked, peering around with wide eyes.

Clint nodded. "It's the one Natasha got, and you know she's never wrong about shit like this."

If her clothes hadn't been mended and patched in a dozen different fabrics, she might almost have blended into the background. She fitted better than Clint, anyway. It was why she was here: a reassuringly normal face so they didn't scare Phil's friend into calling the police. Natasha had insisted, but then she had refused to be that face, as had Bruce.

Phil worked for the DA. Clint had never asked why Bruce and Natasha stayed in the tunnels, but he had a feeling it was the reason they weren't here with him. Simmons and Fitz had no records. They had been rescued from a children's home that was attempting to sell their charges and they'd refused to go back, so they'd grown up in the tunnels.

"Which one is it?" Simmons asked.

Clint stopped in front of number 616. "This one. Do your thing."

Simmons pushed him out of direct sight from the door and tugged her shirt straight, before ringing the bell. She waited a minute and rang again.

The door flew open to reveal a young woman with messy long hair, clearly just out of bed. "What's the emergency?"

Simmons smiled politely. "Hello. Are you Daisy?"

Eyes narrowed. "Who wants to know?"

"Are you a friend of Phil Coulson?"

"I might be," Daisy said, still eyeing Simmons suspiciously. "Who wants to know?"

"A friend of his," Simmons said. "We're worried, and we wondered if you knew where he went tonight."

Daisy's fingers were white where she was gripping the door. "How can I be sure that you're his friend?"

"Oh, I...uh...I mean..." Simmons trailed away helplessly.

Clint stepped into view. "Trust us, we're his friends."

Daisy's eyes went wide, but miraculously, she didn't scream, faint, or close the door and lock it. She tilted her head and stared him up and down. "Tell me again, why I should believe that."

"Because he's in trouble," Clint said. "And we're here to get him out of it."

For a long, breathless moment, Daisy watched them both, her eyes flickering between them. She pursed her lips. "You're sure he's in trouble?"

"Yes."

"I know where he was going," Daisy said. "Give me a minute to get dressed and I'll take you there."

Simmons' eyes dropped and her cheeks turned pink. Daisy's shorts left nothing to the imagination and Clint wondered whether he should get Natasha to give her a talk about personal safety. As she closed the door, though, he caught a glimpse of the can of pepper spray she'd been hiding behind her back and the baseball bat leaning against a table.

Maybe she wasn't as vulnerable as she looked.

***

Phil's head was hurting in a way that it hadn't since his attack. It throbbed with every beat of his heart and turning his head made him want to throw up. For a long time, he lay where he was, willing the pain to fade away and his stomach to settle.

Opening his eyes sent a new spike of pain shooting through his skull and he squinted until his eyes adjusted to the dim light. The ceiling above him was dirty and pock-marked.

He tried to roll onto his side, but something was wrapped around his wrist that clinked when he moved. Phil lifted his head a little, which hurt like hell at first, but the pain faded and he realised that not having the sore part of his skull resting against the floor helped.

The floor. He was lying on a dusty concrete floor.

Moving slowly, Phil managed to lever himself up to slump against the wall beside him. That took all his energy at first, but each little victory seemed to help and require less recovery time. The thing wrapping around his wrist turned out to be a handcuff attached to a radiator, which explained the clinking when he moved.

Phil tugged at the cuff for a minute, trying to pull his hand free, but it had been fastened too tightly. He briefly lamented that he wasn't in the habit of carrying around a paperclip that he could twist into a lock-pick, before remembering that he wouldn't know how to pick the lock on a handcuff even if he had one.

It was another thing to add to his list of things he really needed to learn: how to spot that his closest friend was a lying, greedy bastard, and how to pick locks.

There was no sense trying to yank his hand out of the cuff, he'd have to dislocate his thumb and that was another thing on his list of things to learn how to do later, so he settled down to wait. The room he'd been locked into was lit by a single bulb overhead. There were no windows and the door was made of flimsy plywood. Phil narrowed his eyes.

In the far corner, a stack of cardboard boxes displayed familiar logos. A couple of them were from Insight Construction. The rest were old boxes from his partnership with Garrett.

This room was in one of the basement storage rooms in the law firm's building. Garrett probably hadn't wanted to raise suspicion by carrying an unconscious body out. He'd used the service elevator to bring Phil down here, probably with Ward's help, and locked him in.

They couldn't afford to let him go, but apparently they hadn't graduated to cold-blooded murder yet. Or at least, neither of them was ready to get their hands _that_ dirty.

Phil could think of at least two old clients who would know where people could be bought to get rid of him. They'd even make it look like an accident. Garrett had always taken those cases, laughing at Phil's reluctance to defend men that he knew were murderers. After all, everyone deserved a good defence, Garrett always said. Even the ones who were obviously guilty and couldn't hide the fact in front of their attorneys.

Maybe Phil should have guessed a long time ago. But, no, Garrett had always seemed to be doing his best for their clients, getting them the best sentences possible when there was no way to bamboozle the jury into setting them free. It was what they did.

Phil sighed and tried to settle more comfortably. The DA's office definitely suited him better than private practice ever had.

Time passed slowly. Phil had no way to tell how long he'd been unconscious and the silence seemed to distort the minutes. It might have been only an hour later, or it could be the late morning.

If it was morning, Daisy would be in the office, and she would raise the alarm when he wasn't at his desk. His door was unlocked and his briefcase was still there. It would be enough to worry her.

Would they risk waiting that long before disposing of him?

Or would Ward cover for him, pretending Phil was out somewhere? Phil hadn't told anyone that he'd started to suspect Ward was a mole. There would be no reason for anyone to suspect that Ward was lying.

If Garrett had any sense, he'd make sure Phil was dealt with and alert Insight Construction to step up their operations. What had Garrett called the CEO? Pierce. He would either get construction moving fast, so the city didn't feel they could stop him, or he'd abandon everything and run. Phil was willing to bet they'd try Plan A first. If they thought he was working on his own and they got rid of him, they might be willing to gamble everything.

He rested his head back, frustrated by his inability to do anything. His head was clearing, the ache was a dull throb, but all he could do was sit and wait.

A noise outside brought Phil's head up. It came again. A soft scuffing, like feet being dragged on concrete.

Were they bringing someone else to lock up with him?

Phil's heart began racing. What if Daisy hadn't taken his advice? What if she'd decided to follow him and they'd caught her? If he was responsible for that young woman's death, he wouldn't be able to forgive himself.

Another sound made him frown. A voice, too low to make out, muffled through the door. Another voice said something. This one was higher and softer, so quiet that Phil would have thought he was imagining it if he hadn't been listening so carefully.

The door handle turned and Phil braced his feet against the floor, trying to feel ready for whatever came through, but it didn't open. Something rattled against the lock, metal on metal, and it took Phil a moment to realise what the sound meant; someone was picking the lock.

A surge of hope rushed through him. If someone was picking the lock, they didn't have a key. It wasn't Garrett or Ward.

The sounds stopped and Phil refused to allow himself to blink, even though his eyes were hot and gritty. With a loud crash, the door burst open and Clint stumbled into the room, his eyes darting wildly.

When his gaze reached Phil, he let out a sound that might have been a growl as he rushed to Phil and dropped to his knees. His lips twitched, as though he wanted to snarl, but his hands were gentle as he patted Phil's chest and shoulders and slid down to his arms.

"Did they hurt you?" Clint asked.

Phil shook his head and winced as the movement made the pain in his head spike again.

Clint definitely growled this time.

"It's nothing serious," Phil said. "Probably just a mild concussion."

That didn't seem to mollify Clint. He tried to lift Phil's hands, but the handcuff stopped him with a loud chink.

There was more than a hint of a roar in Clint's voice when he said, "Take that off him."

Daisy appeared behind Clint, holding a set of lock picks. A young woman stood next to her, dressed in the kind of patched and recycled clothes Phil recognised as a Down Below dweller's.

"We're here to rescue you, boss," Daisy said.

Phil couldn't stop a small smile. "I can see that. Thank you."

"Not a problem." She grinned. "You've got so much explaining to do, sir."

***

Against Phil's better judgement, Daisy followed them down into the tunnels. She seemed to feel that now that she knew there was a world down there and it was threatened, that meant she had to see it for herself.

Phil wondered how much of it was to do with the greater good, and how much was connected to the young woman that Clint had introduced as Simmons. Daisy walked beside her, a little ahead of Phil and Clint, during the entire walk through the tunnels.

Clint didn't seem willing to let Phil out of touching range, which Phil discovered he didn't mind at all. The small thrill each time their hands or shoulders brushed was distracting, but necessary to Phil's soul. Clint's arms steadying Phil when his footing slipped jumping across a watery tunnel were comforting, and Phil was glad for the excuse to hold onto him for a moment.

If the two women hadn't been there, Phil might have done more than simply hold Clint, but he'd never been good at public displays of affection, and the moment's borrowed strength was enough for now.

"How did you know where to find me?" Phil asked as they walked. "I'd almost forgotten we had those storage rooms."

Clint hesitated before answering. "I could feel you. Where you were, I mean. It got stronger the closer I was."

"Oh." After a short pause, Phil asked, "New thing?"

"New thing."

"Good timing to find it."

"Natasha made me try."

"Tell her thank you, from me."

"Tell her yourself. You'll meet her in a couple of minutes."

The tunnel they were walking along was wider than most had been, and the doors were wooden instead of the metal of those nearer the surface. Wreaths of dried flowers and painted names marked them, signs that whoever lived on the other side took pride in their homes.

In the distance there was a dull boom. Phil felt the ground under his shoes vibrate.

Clint glanced up, his eyes narrowing.

"Does that often happen here?" Phil asked.

"No," Clint said. "Never."

Ahead, Simmons opened a door and gestured Daisy through. Phil and Clint caught up before it closed and Clint pushed it wider, nodding for Phil to proceed him.

He walked into the peaceful office he'd seen from above all those months ago; the office with the large desk and the comfortable couch, with an iron spiral staircase leading to a book-lined gallery above. It wasn't peaceful anymore.

It was chaos, with a dozen people all speaking at once, lining the room and sitting on the staircase. In the centre stood the man with greying curls, leaning on a thick cane.

"What happened?" Clint asked.

The shouting died down and everyone turned to face them.

One man with blond hair, his face streaked with dust, stepped forward. "They started blasting. We weren't ready."

"Shit," Clint said.


	15. Chapter 15

There was a moment's silence after the announcement, but it didn't last. As soon as Steve sank down onto the sofa, people resumed shouting, and Clint was too stunned to stop them.

Blasting already? They should have had days.

"It's my fault," Phil said, frowning. "If I hadn't confronted Garrett, they wouldn't have stepped up their schedule. I was afraid they'd do this."

Clint shook his head. "It's not your fault. We knew they were planning to start demolition in the first block soon."

Phil shot him a look that said he didn't believe Clint's reassurances, which was fair enough. Clint didn't believe them, either, although he didn't blame Phil. If this Garrett had been his friend, Clint would have wanted to confront him before talking to the authorities, too. He wouldn't have wanted to believe that someone he trusted could be that corrupt.

"Can you shut them down?" Clint asked.

"If I had more evidence," Phil said. "All I've got is a suspicious lack of evidence and an account of a meeting that Garrett and Ward will both deny."

"I've got some stuff."

Clint hadn't noticed Daisy edging closer under the cover of all the chaos, but Simmons stood close beside her and they'd clearly both been listening.

At least Clint hadn't said anything stupid, like confessing how much he wanted to kill Garrett for daring to lay a hand on Phil. He wasn't sure how much Phil wanted Daisy to know about their relationship.

"What kind of 'stuff' do you have?" Phil asked.

Daisy shrugged. "Oh, you know, just all the company accounts--for every company attached to Insight Consulting--and some deeply shady emails Garrett sent to the people wiping the police records. You know, the good stuff."

Simmons' eyes were wide with respect and something else that might have made Clint smile on another day. "How did you get that?"

"I'm really, really good at what I do," Daisy said, grinning.

"You hacked them?" There was a note of disapproval in Phil's voice. "That's not going to be admissible in court."

"Pretty sure you can find a way," Daisy said, her smile turning cheeky. "Even if you can't, it'll be enough to get the DA interested, and you know what he'll do."

"Nick does hate a conspiracy."

Clint frowned. "Does that mean you can shut them down?"

"Probably," Phil said. "I might even be able to get people moving fast enough to raid their offices before they can destroy too much evidence."

"Unless they set all their buildings on fire," Daisy said, "I can retrieve whatever they try to delete."

"They've set buildings on fire before," Clint said.

Phil nodded. "I need to move fast, then."

"You should be in a hospital," Simmons protested. "Your head--"

"Will wait," Phil said. "This won't. Daisy?"

"Right behind you, boss."

"I'll try to keep things under control here," Clint said. "I have to protect my people. Some of them are still trapped. We need to get them out before anyone breeches the tunnels and starts poking around."

"We'll try to get this done as fast as we can," Phil said.

"We'll be waiting," Clint said.

It was probably a really bad idea to hug Phil, but Clint had never been good at saying no to a bad idea. It was how his entire relationship with Phil began--acting on a bad idea--and look how that had turned out?

When Clint wrapped his arms around him, Phil didn't seem to mind, judging by the way his arms tightened around Clint and held him close for a long, too short moment. He breathed in the familiar scent, his chest warming when Phil took the chance to press his lips against Clint's neck. If Simmons and Daisy hadn't been watching with matching wide eyes, he might have stolen his own kiss, but he didn't.

Moving out of Phil's embrace was one of the hardest things Clint had ever done, but it was necessary. There were too many people at stake if he didn't.

"I'll see you later," Clint said, his voice sounding thick and odd to his own ears.

Phil cleared his throat. "That's a promise."

They exchanged smiles and then Phil dragged Daisy away, with Simmons offering to show him a short-cut that only she and Fitz knew.

Clint turned and faced the crowd still arguing fruitlessly, battering Bruce with their recriminations and useless plans that were going nowhere.

"Hey!" he said. "We have a plan."

Into the silence that followed, Natasha said, "Oh, shit."

***

Another boom rattled the pipes overhead as Phil and Daisy followed Simmons through the twisting halls and tunnels.

"Is it safe down here?" Daisy asked.

Simmons waved a careless hand. "Of course! Perfectly safe. Nothing to worry about. Probably."

"It's the probably that worries me," Daisy said.

"Fitz said it's safe, and he knows as much about engineering as anyone can."

"I'd feel better if someone with an actual engineering degree was certifying our safety,'

"Steve's an architect," Simmons said. "He knows about construction and safety and he backs Fitz's assessment. 

"Does he have an education?"

Simmons nodded quickly. "From a real university. He left Down Below to get it, but he's still one of our helpers. You know about helpers, don't you?"

"Nope," Daisy said.

"I might have met one," Phil said. "Sam Wilson?"

Simmons nodded. "There are people from your world who help us."

"I'm starting to get that," Daisy said.

"Most of it is helping us to buy things we can't," Simmons said, ignoring Daisy with dignity. "You know, helping us to turn some of our crafts into money so we can buy the things we can't make or grow. Keeping an eye out for people who might need us, that kind of thing. Bruce tries to keep us safe down here, so he doesn't like us getting caught up there, stealing stuff."

Phil touched the wall of the tunnel they were walking down, unsurprised to find that it was dry and clean, "How did Bruce end up starting this community?"

"I've never asked," Simmons said. "He's Bruce."

"I hate mysteries." Daisy glared at Simmons, who seemed to be counting something on the ceiling. "Ones I can't hack are the worst. You're not even going to give me a last name, are you?"

"This is the one!" Simmons said, putting her hand on a ladder that led up to a manhole cover. "Up there. It will take you out in an alley about five minutes from your office."

Phil nodded. "Thank you."

"It was my pleasure to rescue you, sir," Simmons said. "I hope to see you again."

"I'll look forward to it."

"And you," Simmons said, turning to Daisy. Her ears were still a little pink. "You should visit whenever you want. Your eyes are very symmetrical."

She had disappeared down the tunnel, around a corner, before Daisy recovered her voice.

"Did she just flirt with me by praising my eye placement?"

Phil smiled. "I think she did."

"Weird woman. I like her."

"You can return the flirting later," Phil said. "We have work to do. Fury should be halfway through his first cup of coffee by now."

***

Clint held onto the roof of the subway train he was lying on, staring ahead grimly. He didn't need to turn his head to know that Steve was behind him, holding on tight with a matching expression. It was the fastest way to get to the demolition site, but it wasn't safe by any means.

Fitz and and his team were still at the site, trying to get new doors and grills into place before anyone decided to explore the newly-exposed tunnels that the blasting had uncovered. If they could get the area locked down and the entrances hidden before anyone came down, it might be possible to get everyone to safety.

It would mean abandoning everything, but it was their only hope. Steve had only left because he could carry the message faster than anyone else. He and Clint were the only people daring--or foolish--enough to risk the subway trains.

Natasha was leading a team through a longer, safer route to provide extra support, but it would take time that they might not have.

Clint hoped that the expression he'd seen in Bruce's eyes just before he left didn't mean that Bruce planned to come with them. Between his bad leg and his uncertain temper, he wasn't a good choice to be in the middle of this kind of chaos. Everyone would need to move fast and keep their heads.

Maybe the keeping-his-head part would be difficult for Clint, he could see the irony here, but at least he could do the moving fast part.

The train slowed for a sharp bend and Clint tensed. The opening he needed was just ahead and it required good reflexes to hit it just right.

Clint spotted the marker and threw himself to the side, hitting the ground hard and rolling over and over until he was clear. Steve landed a moment later, less gracefully, and his momentum skidded him into Clint's side.

"Ow," Steve muttered.

Clint pushed him away. "You've got to learn to roll with it."

"I'll make sure to do that if I ever end up in a circus."

"Haha."

There was no time for more; they scrambled to their feet and began running. The site wasn't far and another boom shook the tunnels as they arrived, sending a shower of dust and crumbling mortar down on Clint's head.

"That's not good," he said.

"Nope. Not good at all."

They found Fitz working on one of the doors, sparks flying from the welding torch he was wielding with no apparent regard for his safety. Clint definitely hoped Bruce didn't come: he would have some angry words for Fitz.

"Where are we?" Clint asked.

Fitz turned off his torch and raised his face mask, the only safety precaution he'd taken. "Running behind, but we're working as fast as we can. I've got two teams out there and we don't have time to disguise anything. They'll know someone was working down here the moment they see the doors."

"Shit."

"Can we pull our people back to some of the existing doors?" Steve asked.

"There are half a dozen families living between here and the next barricadable door," Fitz said. "They'll have to abandon everything."

Clint sighed. "We haven't even got time to move our shit out of the places we're already evacuating. They're going to know people are living down here."

"We should have started the evac sooner."

"We know," Steve said. "But have you ever tried to move some of these people when they didn't want to go?"

"They felt safe there," Clint said.

"Well, now they're not safe," Fitz said. "None of us are."

"First priority is to get everyone out of the demolition zone and then we'll retreat," Clint said. "All the way back if we have to."

"All the way back to where?" Fitz asked.

Clint shook his head. He didn't know, either.

"There isn't time to stand here arguing," Steve said. "Do whatever you can. If they have to break through doors to find us, at least you'll buy us time to retreat somewhere safer.  
We're going to help with the evacuation."

"I've got someone working on shutting down the construction crews," Clint said. "Maybe the doors won't need to hold for long."

"Tell him to work fast."

"He knows."

From somewhere inside the tunnels, the sound of gunfire echoed towards them. Clint exchanged a glance with Steve and then they were running.

***

Fury frowned at Phil and Daisy, his eye narrowing. "Do you have any evidence? Anything we can put in front of a judge."

"Nothing admissible in court," Daisy said, "but if you get me into Garrett's offices, I can get it."

"Garrett as good as admitted that he'd been the front for Insight Construction for years," Phil said. "All the evidence will be there. I'm sure that I saw one of the ledgers just before I was attacked."

"He admitted to arranging the attack?"

"Yes."

Fury pursed his lips. "I've been trying to find something on Insight for the last three years. There's something about their projects that never felt right--too many lucky planning decisions and neighbourhoods that suddenly decided to sell to them after refusing to sell to other developers. Insight always came up clean as a whistle, no matter how hard I poked. How did you two get all of this?"

"A friend asked me to look into something," Phil said.

"And I got suspicious about the big fat nothingness that seemed to surround them," Daisy said. "You know, if it looks too good, it usually is."

"You've seen the data?" Fury asked.

"I've got a copy of their accounts on my hard drive."

"Did you get it legally?"

Daisy shrugged. "That's why you need to get me into Garrett's offices."

Phil shifted his feet. He was too tired, he felt sticky and grubby in ways he didn't want to think about, and his head was still pounding, but he needed to see this through. Clint was counting on him. "You can use Garrett's attempt to kill me last night as a reason to raid his offices. After that, you should have everything you need to shut down Insight's operations."

Fury nodded. "I'll put in a call to Judge Hand. But why didn't you go straight to the police after Daisy got you out?"

Phil exchanged a quick glance with Daisy, who nodded subtly. She'd back his play, good. "We weren't sure who we could trust in the precinct. Someone has been making police reports disappear."

"What a mess."

"Yes, sir."

Fury nodded. "I'll put in that call and I have some favours I can call in. The only people on the raid will be officers I trust."

"Thank you, sir."

"Get cleaned up," Fury said. "You looked like you've been sleeping in a cave. We leave in half an hour. You, too, Ms Johnson. Bring your gadgets and get me the data to shut down Insight. I hear they're clearing their latest site already, and I don't want to have to explain to the mayor a few months from now why I've left an apartment block half-constructed and making an eyesore if I can't shut them down today. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Phil said, promising himself a large coffee while he changed. "You may have to explain to the mayor why there's a large hole where there used to be buildings. They started blasting a while ago."

Fury's expression was sour. "I'm aware of that. Let's try to stop them making it worse. We leave as soon as I have the warrant."

"I'll be there," Daisy said.

"Good. Now get the hell out of my office so I can make those calls."

***

Clint crouched behind a pile of rubble, watching two men in dark overalls creep down the tunnel. They both held guns in a way that screamed professionalism. They had to be security, not construction crew.

Clint wished that he'd thought to bring his old bow. He was a lot of things, but he wasn't bullet-proof. He might have been able to pick off a few before he ran out of arrows.

The urge to rush them rose in his chest. If there hadn't been a small family--mother and two young children--crouched with him, he might have given into the temptation. But he had a duty, people to protect, and he wouldn't be any good to them if he allowed himself to be killed before they were safe.

The security men rounded a corner and vanished into the darkness. Clint waited a long, breathless moment before touching the mother's shoulder and urging her to her feet. She picked up the youngest child, barely a year old, and they began hurrying down the tunnel.

The other little boy was three years old and his short little legs couldn't keep up or stay silent. After a few feet, Clint swept him up and carried him against his chest. Two small serious eyes watched him before the little boy leaned in close and wrapped his arms around Clint's neck.

They ducked into a side-tunnel that the security guards hadn't seen, hidden behind a dirty tarp that blended with the wall almost perfectly. It was pitch dark down here, but Clint's sharp eyes could make out shapes and he led confidently, the young mother holding onto his cloak to stay with him.

They emerged into a well-lit cave where Simmons and Sam were giving out water and arranging evacuees into groups for the walk back to the safe areas. A pitted, rusty door with a wheel lock stood open at the other end of the small cavern, ready to be closed as soon as everyone had been evacuated.

A tall man stood up as soon as Clint came into view. He looked dirty and exhausted, but a relieved smile brightened his face as he strode forward and the young woman rushed into his arms. Clint passed the boy to him and walked away quickly, giving the little family some privacy.

"Is Natasha still searching?" Clint asked, as he accepted a cup of water from Simmons.

Sam nodded. "She brought in half a dozen people and left again."

"And Steve?"

"He was with her."

Simmons refilled his cup. "Are you going back again?"

"I can't leave until everyone is out," Clint said. "We've still got two families missing. You need to start leading this group back."

"Simmons can do it," Sam said. "I'll stay."

"No!" Simons said. "I can stay."

Clint shook his head. "I don't care who stays, but someone has to get our people home, just in case we can't hold this cavern."

They were still bickering when he left, but he trusted them to make their decision fast. There was nothing he could do; it was more important for him to do what he was good at.

Clint loped down the tunnel on silent feet, intent on finding the last two families before Insight's security people did.

***

The office was brighter and busier than the last time Phil had seen it. Not the panicked kind of busy, not until people started to notice Fury at the head of a group of police officers, which hopefully meant that the majority of the staff hadn't been involved in Garrett and Insight's work.

Phil really didn't want any of them to be involved. He'd trained some of them, recruited others. They had been good people.

Phil and Daisy followed at the back of the line of police officers. Daisy was carrying a slim laptop and a bag of cables, ready to hack in and recover as much data as possible.

The line of police and lawyers marched down the hallway towards Garrett's office, leaving whispers and stares in its wake. Garrett's secretary jumped to her feet and stood in front of the door.

"Mr Garrett isn't here," she said, glaring at Fury.

Fury glared back. "Where is he?"

"I don't know."

"Really."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Really."

"When will he be back?"

"I don't know."

Phil pushed past through the crowd of police and caught her eye. Her expression softened a little, before she drew herself up again.

"Miriam," Phil said. "You always know where John is. Please, you have to tell us."

A worried frown creased Miriam's brow. "Honestly, Mr Coulson, I don't know. When I arrived this morning, he wasn't here. I've had to cancel two meetings already. He's supposed to be in court later, but the files are still on my desk, and he hasn't left any messages."

"Have you seen Grant Ward?"

Miriam's frown deepened. "Mr Ward? Well, actually, yes I have. I thought he'd left us, but I saw him this morning, carrying some boxes down to the basement. He said that he was doing a favour for Mr Garrett."

Phil exchanged a look with Fury. "Thank you, Miriam. Can you go with one of these officers? I'm afraid you won't be able to take anything with you, but I'll make sure that you get your purse back before you have to go home."

"What's going on, Mr Coulson?" Miriam asked. "Has Mr Garrett done something?"

"I can't discuss it," Phil said.

"It's just that...he's been meeting with Mr Pierce, one of our clients, every day for the last week, and he always looks odd after."

"What kind of odd?"

Miriam shrugged. "You know what he's usually like, so confident about everything. But he's been extra confident. Excited. It's not like it was when you were here."

"I'm sorry," Phil said. "I didn't know what he was doing."

"Ms Johnson," Fury said, "can you start doing whatever it is that you need to do?"

Daisy nodded. "Maybe Miriam could show me a where I can plug into the network?"

"I can do that," Miriam said, a look of relief crossing her face. "Come this way."

Fury nodded and an officer separated from the group to accompany them. "Phil, you know the layout of this place. What is down in the basement?"

Phil thought for a moment, and almost groaned. "The incinerator."

"Fuck," Fury said, and gestured to some officers. "Go, stop him."

Phil nodded and began running. The elevator seemed to take longer than it ever had before to descend and it felt too small, too tight, with all the uniformed bodies pressed around him. He stared at the numbers counting down impatiently, willing it to move faster, and resisted the temptation to tap his foot. The door opened and everyone poured out, half a dozen pairs of eyes turning to Phil to lead the way.

He'd only been to the incinerator a couple of times in the years he'd worked here; usually he just had to put material for disposal in a special bin. He turned left and hoped that his vague memories were right.

Halfway down the hallway, he passed the door to the room where he'd been imprisoned a few hours ago. The boxes in the corner were gone and there was no sign of the handcuff that had still been attached to the radiator the last time he saw it. Garrett was cleaning up the evidence.

The door at the end of the hallway was locked. Phil twisted the handle uselessly before standing back to allow an officer who had to be at least six and a half feet tall take over. One quick kick and it was open, allowing officers to rush in ahead of Phil.

When Phil followed them through, he was just in time to see Ward throw an entire box into the flaming maw of the incinerator. More boxes were stacked around him, most of them empty. He reached for one of the remaining full boxes, but an officer kicked it away and caught his hands, twisting them behind his back.

As the officer began reading Ward his rights, Ward glared at Phil with an expression so poisonous, it sent shivers down Phil's back.

"Where is Garrett?" Phil asked.

"Fuck you," Ward said.

***

The staging cavern was mostly empty when Clint returned to it empty-handed. Simmons and Sam were still there, but the evacuees had gone.

To Clint's frustration, Bruce was waiting with them. The lines around his eyes were deeper than Clint had ever seen them and he didn't smile when he saw Clint.

"What are you doing here?" Clint asked, barely managing to keep the growl out of his voice.

Bruce's lips tightened. "I can't just sit at my desk and wait for news."

"Yes, you can," Clint said. "That's exactly what you can do. That's what you're supposed to do!"

"I tried telling him," Simmons said.

"Have Steve and Natasha checked in?" Clint asked.

Sam nodded. "They brought the Cages through a while ago. Apparently they had a run in with some of those guards the construction company sent down."

"Are they okay?"

"Steve took a rifle butt to the head, so Natasha is taking him and the Cages back to safety. You're the last man out there."

"I haven't found the Maximoffs yet. Have they come in?"

Bruce shook his head. "Their parents were found not long ago. One of the west tunnels collapsed."

Clint slowly lowered his water cup. "Shit."

"I'm going out with you to look," Bruce said. "I've taught both of them. If they're hiding somewhere, they'll trust me."

"No." Clint handed his cup back to Simmons and crossed his arms over his chest. "No way. That's a really bad idea."

"You've never let a bad idea get in the way of doing something," Bruce said.

"Yeah, and look how well that usually works out for me."

"It hasn't worked out that badly."

"Name three times a bad idea has worked out for me."

Bruce smiled. "Picking my pocket. Following me when I asked. Rescuing a lawyer."

"That's not fair," Clint said.

"Your bad ideas aren't all bad." Bruce nodded towards the cavern exit. "Are you going to waste time arguing, or are you going to take me with you?"

For an answer, Clint turned on his heel and stalked away. The soft thump of Bruce's cane followed him, faster than he'd expected, and he slowed a little to let Bruce keep up.

They'd have to move slowly anyway, Clint reasoned, if they were going to avoid the Insight security crews roaming the tunnels. Bruce wouldn't slow him down much.

He was right. They had to move so slowly that Bruce was able to match his pace easily. The Insight patrols seemed to be concentrating on the area immediately around the places where blasting had exposed tunnels to the air. It was hard to tell whether they were cautious about the dark unknown, or whether something else was keeping them contained. Whatever it was, Clint was grateful for it. The demolition work was limited to one block and hadn't crossed the street to the concert hall and the whispering gallery below it. If Phil was able to stop Insight before they went any further, there might still be a way to save the beautiful cavern and the library beside it. They might have to find new routes, finish the doors that Fitz was installing, but they could save it all.

If Phil stopped Insight.

Clint refused to think about what would happen if he didn't. Phil could do it. He had faith in Phil; the kind of belief in one person that he'd never found outside of Natasha and Bruce.

A flash of light on metal alerted Clint in time to pull Bruce into a side-tunnel and shield them both with his cloak as a patrol walked through. The lines around Bruce's eyes and mouth were deep when Clint led him back into the main tunnel.

The Maximoffs had arrived in their little community a couple of years ago, the parents speaking only a few words of English and carrying nothing except their clothes and the twins. None of them had been willing to talk about where they came from, not even the two small children. It was plain to see that they were terrified of officials, but they had settled into the world Down Below with ease despite the language barrier.

Clint headed towards the small apartment they'd carved out of a dead-end tunnel and a couple of small rooms. It seemed like the most logical place for the twins to hide if they were frightened by the blasting and found they were alone, cut off from their parents. He had to hide from patrols twice before he found the entrance to the little home, hidden behind a false grill that he'd helped Fitz to rig up.

There were no lights inside, but Clint didn't need them. He could see a pair of pale faces looking out from under a table.

"Hey," he said, crouching. "Wanda? Pietro? You know me, right?"

Wanda nodded. Pietro didn't move.

"And you know Bruce, right?"

Again, Wanda nodded, while Pietro stayed frozen.

Bruce didn't crouch, but he did use his cane to support him when he bent a little. "Hi guys. We're here to take you somewhere safer."

"Somewhere without bombs?" Wanda asked, her voice shaking.

Clint swallowed. "Somewhere quiet, yeah."

Wanda seemed to consider it for a long time before nodding. Her brother didn't move.

"We need to get out of here now," Clint said. "And we're going to have to play a game. It's a little like hide and go seek."

"We're hiding from the bad men with guns," Wanda said. "We know that game."

Bruce sighed. "I guess you do."

The twins should have been too young to know the game, but Clint had found that some children learned it much too early. He'd always known to duck, to hide, to cover his face, but he hadn't needed to learn to hide from men with guns until he was older than them.

A couple of years older, anyway.

They followed easily enough, even Pietro, as long as Wanda held his hand. Neither of them spoke. On the one hand it was a relief, because Clint wasn't sure what he would have done if the children had been chatterers and they'd met an Insight patrol.

Except children shouldn't be that quiet, and Clint was afraid for what they'd do when someone finally told them that their parents were dead. They were already so traumatised.

Clint relaxed slightly when they reached the tunnel leading to the staging cavern without passing any patrols. He could see the faint light shining out, glittering off tiny bits of quartz embedded in the tunnel walls. Pietro suddenly darted ahead, running toward brightness with a speed that took Clint by surprise. He glanced behind to check that Wanda was still walking beside Bruce, and that was when he heard a boom.

It was louder than any he'd heard earlier and it shook the tunnel, sending dust and mortar pattering down around them. Something groaned above and Clint looked up, his heart sinking as a wide crack opened in the ceiling above them. Another boom, as loud as the first, sent a shower of pebbles and fine dust raining down on them, and then the tunnel collapsed with a deafening roar.


	16. Chapter 16

Phil really needed a cup of coffee. His back and arms were aching from the long hours chained to a radiator, and his quick wash in the DA office bathroom hadn't done much for the gritty feeling on his skin. His suit was rumpled and his shirt had the scratchy feel of fabric that had been taken straight out of the packaging.

That was because it had. He was lucky that he'd found a spare shirt in the depths of a filing cabinet, otherwise he'd be wearing the sweaty, wrinkled shirt he'd replaced it with.

If he'd been able to get clean socks, he might have felt less disgusting. Clean socks were miraculous in their healing abilities.

His former offices were a hive of activity, but not the good kind. Officials in dark suits were packing up files and computers, but he didn't recognise any of them. They could have been from any of the letter agencies, and he wasn't sure which one Fury had called in. He was too tired to care. He'd care tomorrow, when he'd slept and seen Clint.

He had taken refuge in a corner of reception, waiting for Fury to either send him home or send him to the next task. Probably home. If he touched any of the evidence, it might compromise the investigation.

There was a disturbance at the door leading deeper into the offices and Fury swept through, a scowl creasing his face.

"We've got a lead on your old friend," Fury said.

Phil stood up fast. "Where?"

"The Insight construction site," Fury said. "Apparently he just set off a large explosion, probably trying to cover his tracks. Officers are already on their way to arrest everyone they can find. Thank fuck it's an empty site, or we'd have a situation on our hands."

"What about Pierce?"

"Having a really bad day at JFK." Fury's scowl was briefly replaced with a grimly satisfied smile. "He tried to skip town. Thought we wouldn't know about him yet."

"It couldn't happen to a nicer person." Phil hesitated. "Do you know how much damage the explosions did?"

Fury shrugged. "Enough. But like I said, it's an empty site. Garrett pulled the Insight crews back just before he set it off. Apparently they found some old tunnels underneath, which are probably under a ton of rubble now, but the worst he's done is destroy a few old access tunnels that no one was using any more."

"Right." Phil nodded. "Of course. Nobody was using those tunnels. Do you need me anymore?"

"Probably not," Fury said. "Got somewhere you need to be?"

"Yes."

"Anything I should know about?"

Phil jabbed the button to call the elevator, thinking quickly. Fury didn't need to know about Down Below; nobody did. Maybe it would be easier if Fury did know, but giving up their secrets would do more harm than good.

"No," he said, as the door opened. "Nothing you need to know about."

"Good." As the elevator doors closed, he added, "Make sure none of Bruce's people get seen by any officers. I can't pull their asses out of any fires they jump into."

Phil stared at the metal doors as they slid closed before he could muster the coordination to hit the button and stop them. Fury knew about Down Below; had always known, probably.

The bastard.

And Phil was willing to stake his life that Fury would deny it if anyone ever asked.

***

Clint lay where he'd fallen for a long time, straining his ears for any sound that would tell him whether it was safe to move. All he heard was the occasional patter of falling stones and the soft breathing of at least one other person.

A small body was curled against his and he could feel its chest moving against his arm. Sobs escaped every now and again, but Clint couldn't tell whether it was Wanda or Pietro.

As his senses became more attuned to the dark, he was able to separate out two distinct patterns to the inhalations: the quiet half sobs of the child next to him, and someone to his left who was taking long, steady breaths.

Calming breaths.

That had to be Bruce. He was the only person Clint knew who would be trying to meditate his way out of a rock fall.

Clint moistened his lips. "Is everyone okay?"

"Yes," a small voice said.

"Who is that?"

"Wanda." The small body pressed against Clint's arm shifted a little, but he couldn't tell what she was doing. "Pietro? Where are you?" 

"He's fine," Clint said. "He was way ahead of us before everything collapsed. Pretty sure I saw him make it to the cavern. Bruce, are you good?"

A slow exhalation. "I'm fine, Clint. A little bruised, but that's all."

"You know Natasha's going to yell at us if you're lying about that, right?"

"She's going to yell at us even if we both get out of here without a scratch."

"Good point." Clint blinked, but it made no difference to the light levels. It was so dark that even his eyesight couldn't penetrate anything. "What do you think happened?"

"It was a bomb," Wanda said, as though that should be obvious to everyone.

"The tunnel collapsed," Bruce said. "Where did we end up?"

"Remember that dead-end side tunnel?" Clint asked. "The one that Fitz thought might have been built to service the subway, but they abandoned the idea?"

"We're in there?"

"It wasn't collapsing. Seemed like the best option."

"Thank you."

"Will they dig us out?" Wanda asked? "How are they going to find us?"

 

"They'll find us," Clint said. "Pietro got out, remember? He'll tell someone where we are and they won't stop digging until they get us out."

"What about the bad men with guns? Won't everyone have to hide from them?"

Clint opened his mouth to reply, but Bruce beat him to it.

"Clint has a very good friend who is making the bad men with guns go away," Bruce said. "Then our friends can dig us out."

"Huh." Wanda paused, as though she was trying to find a hole in the plan. "Is he a really really good friend?"

"The best kind," Clint said. "And he won't give up until all the bad men are locked away and we're safe again."

"He sounds nice," she said.

Clint smiled. "He is."

***

Phil didn't go to the demolition site. He drove past it in the back of a taxi and saw the uniformed officers and men in dark suits rounding up people wearing overalls printed with the Insight logo, but he didn't stop there. He didn't want to accidentally run into Garrett. The temptation to punch the man in the teeth might be too strong, and he didn't want to jeopardise a conviction by assaulting him.

He directed the taxi to the veteran's centre that Sam ran, instead, but it was empty. 

Phil stood in the door to the veteran's centre and stared down the street, uncertain what to do next. He probably could find the entrance to the tunnels under his apartment building, but the grate would be locked and he didn't know the language of the pipes to call for help.

He added that to his growing list of things he needed to learn.

If he could remember the path, maybe he could get to the entrance near the DA's office, but he could easily wander the tunnels for hours without ever finding his way back to Bruce's office. Clint had mentioned an entrance near the burnt out apartment building. Maybe that was where he should start.

Phil had just turned to start walking down the street when he heard a soft, "Psst!"

He turned, peering around for the source. Another "psst!" came, sounding like a tire slowly deflating.

"Hello?" Phil turned again, but he couldn't see anyone. "Is someone here?"

A narrow alley ran down the side of Sam's building. The sound of an irritated groan floated out just before a tousled head appeared.

"Simmons?" he asked.

She nodded and beckoned. "This way, come on. I hoped you'd come back here. I tried to persuade them to post look-outs at the demolition site, but we don't have enough people, so I had to make a guess."

"What would you have done if you were wrong?"

"I hadn't figured that out yet," she said. "Daisy gave me a phone number, but there aren't any pay phones here, and we don't get cell reception Down Below so none of us have cell phones."

"Why were you waiting for me?"

Simmons rolled her eyes and beckoned again, checking up and down the empty street with worried eyes. Phil gave in and walked towards her, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the smells wafting from the alley. Withdrawing a few steps from the street seemed to calm Simmons, so he forced himself to breathe through his mouth and not voice his objections.

"I was waiting for you," she said, "because I knew you'd come looking for Clint."

"How did you know?"

Another eye roll. It seemed to be her speciality expression. "Because that's what people do when they're in a relationship and get into trouble."

"I'm not in--" Phil broke off as realisation hit him. "What happened to Clint?"

"The big explosion made some of the less stable tunnels collapse. Clint was in one of them, bringing out the last children. Bruce was with him."

A sick chill ran down Phil's spine. "Is he alright?"

"I don't know," Simmons said. "One of the children was running ahead and the tunnel collapsed behind him. We're hoping that Clint got Bruce and the little girl somewhere safe, if he had enough warning that the collapse was coming. Natasha told us to find you. She sent a couple of the children to your apartment and Sam is at your office."

"I'm not there."

"I know. You're here, where I said you'd be."

"Are you trying to dig him out?"

Simmons nodded. "Steve and some of the others are digging. We can't go in through the tunnels under the demolition site. Some of them are probably stable, but there's too much risk of running into Insight Construction guards."

"They're all being arrested."

"Oh, good! But that means we really can't go there. Your police are probably everywhere."

"For now," Phil said. "But I have a feeling they won't be for long. You'll probably have time to seal off the tunnels before anyone starts exploring or trying to rebuild."

"Bruce will be happy." Simmons' expression turned grim. "If we find him in time. They're digging from the other side, but there are a lot of rocks in the way."

"Take me," Phil said. "I need to help."

"Natasha wants to see you first."

"I'll see her later."

Simmons shook her head. "You haven't really met Natasha yet, have you? Saying no to her isn't an option."

"She can't be that bad."

Simmons turned and started walking deeper into the alley, saying over her shoulder, "Don't try to say I didn't warn you."

***

The air in their small tunnel was getting warm. Clint could feel Wanda still pressed against him, but the girl seemed to have fallen asleep. He hadn't dared to try sitting up or moving yet; there was no way to tell whether it might shift something and bring more rocks down on them.

"Bruce?" he said.

"Still here," Bruce said. "How is Wanda?"

"Sleeping."

"She's worn out. It's been a lot for her."

Clint nodded, even though Bruce couldn't see it. "A nap sounds good right now."

"I'm not sure we should," Bruce said. "It's getting warm in here."

"I was just noticing that." Clint frowned. "How much air do you think we have?"

"Without knowing the dimensions of the space we're in, I wouldn't want to speculate."

"Oh."

Clint didn't need to hear Bruce say it; there probably wasn't enough was what he was implying. Maybe it was better if they stayed away from the question. He wouldn't be surprised if Wanda was only pretending to be asleep and picking up everything. She seemed like the kind of child who would maintain that kind of vigilance. 

"How is Phil?" Bruce asked.

The darkness made closing his eyes unnecessary, but Clint did it anyway. The warm shape of Phil at the back of his mind was comforting. "He's okay. Somewhere not far away, I think. Worried, but he's been worried all morning, so that doesn't mean anything."

After a short pause, Bruce said. "I'm glad he's there."

"So am I."

***

Natasha was the small red-headed woman that Phil had seen in the meeting in Bruce's office. Her eyes were sharp and angry when Simmons presented Phil to her.

They were in a small cavern that seemed to be the staging point for the men digging in a narrow tunnel to one side. It was lit by an assortment of lamps--battery-powered, oil hurricane lamps, even a few candles--and a couple of dirt-streaked boys were sitting against a wall with cups of water in their hands.

Natasha was standing beside a folding table where several large plans had been laid out and held down with rocks. She had been the middle of an argument with a young man who couldn't be much older than Simmons when Phil arrived, and she glared when he tried to slip away.

"Do you know whether Clint is still alive?" she asked, without pausing to greet him.

Phil frowned. "How would I know that?"

"Clint told me about your bond," she said, ignoring Simmons's wide eyes. "He knows whether you're alive and what you're feeling. Does it run both ways?"

"I don't know."

"Learn. Fast." Her eyes softened slightly. "Try closing your eyes. It helped Clint."

Shrugging, Phil closed his eyes. It couldn't hurt to try. He didn't expect it to work, because this was definitely Clint's talent and not his, but there was no reason not to give it a chance.

The sound of metal on stone intruded, floating out of the tunnel where people were carefully digging. Feet scuffed and someone swore. Phil frowned and tried to push away the distractions, focusing instead on his breathing and the image of Clint sprawled across his bed, relaxed and sleepy and so beautiful it made his chest ache.

It wasn't a feeling, more of an awareness of something at the back of his mind. A warmth that wasn't his. He chased it, trying to push deeper into it, but all he found was that quiet hum of otherness that wouldn't allow him closer.

"He's alive," Phil said.

"Thank fuck." The relief in Natasha's voice was unmistakable. "Do you know where he is?"

"I can't tell. I'm sorry, but all I can feel is that he's still here."

"He's alive. That means we keep digging."

Phil opened his eyes as the young man stepped forward, frowning stubbornly.

"That's why we shouldn't be digging there," he said. "If he's alive, he's not in that tunnel."

Natasha sighed. "We've been through this, Fitz--"

"No," he said, stabbing a finger at the plan spread out over the folding table. "I'm right, I'm sure of it. That side-tunnel was only blocked off from one end and that's where he'll have gone when the roof started to collapse."

"How do you know it didn't cave in with everything else?"

Fitz tapped the map. "I know. Do you need me to explain the physics again?"

"We don't know whether it's even accessible," Natasha said. "Those plans are old. The new ones that Steve got his hands on--"

"Don't show it," Fitz said, "but they don't show a lot of things. They don't show my workshop or Bruce's office, either, but they exist."

Unnoticed, Phil moved closer to the table and looked at the plan Fitz was pointing to. It was old, the pages yellowing, and the ink had faded. Fitz's finger was rested on a small cavern that had to be the one they were standing in. Tunnels branched off it, one leading back the way he'd come in, and the other leading into a tangle of lines that he struggled to make sense of.

The side tunnel Fitz was talking about was tiny and so badly faded that Phil had to bend and peer closely to be sure it wasn't simply an imperfection in the page. It seemed to bridge a gap between the tunnel everyone was digging in and a wider one.

"Why don't we try to go in from the other end of the side tunnel?" Phil asked.

Natasha brushed her hair out of her face. "Because that map is old and unreliable. There's nothing there. I've walked that tunnel more times than I can count, and there aren't any side-tunnels on that section."

"It might have been bricked up," Fitz said. "You know what it's like down here."

"The walls are concrete."

"How closely have you examined them?"

"I haven't put them under a microscope," Natasha said, dryly. "There aren't any strange brick sections in the concrete, though."

"Would it hurt to check?" Simmons asked.

"I can't spare anyone," Natasha said.

Fitz shrugged. "You could spare me and Simmons. There isn't enough room in the tunnel for us to help anywhere."

"I can go with them," Phil said.

Natasha frowned at them for a long time, her gaze calculating. Eventually she jerked her head. "I supposed it's worth trying, but don't take any unnecessary chances. If you see anyone who shouldn't be there, run away."

"We won't take any risks," Simmons said, speaking fast. "Come on Fitz, time to go. We'll be careful, we promise."

Fitz grabbed a bag that had been pushed under the table before allowing her to pull him away, walking so fast that Phil had to lengthen his stride to keep up with them. When he glanced back from the door, Natasha was glaring down at the plans on the table as though she could set them alight with the power of her mind.

He turned away and followed Fitz and Simmons.

The path they took wasn't straight forward. It wove around bends and up and down stairs, leaving Phil relieved that his training with Mack had improved his fitness so much. If he'd been trying to do this a year ago, he would have needed to stop and catch his breath several times. Fitz and Simmons both looked winded after a while and Phil's breath was stinging his throat, but none of them slowed.

The tunnel they were aiming at was wide and badly lit. The walls felt damp to the touch and Phil shivered in the clammy air. Pipes ran along the ceiling, and somewhere in the distance, something was dripping. Phil hoped it was water.

Fitz seemed to be counting as they walked, his hand trailing along the wall. After a couple of minutes, he stopped and stared at the concrete for a minute, before reaching into his bag and producing a large flashlight. Phil's eyes hurt when Fitz turned it on, and he had to squint against the brightness as Fitz trained the beam on the wall.

"You were right," Simmons said.

When Phil's eyes cleared, he could see what had prompted that comment: there was a patch of concrete that looked paler than the surrounding material. Its size and shape could be the entrance to a small side-tunnel, just wide enough for two men to walk abreast if they were very good friends.

Fitz handed the flashlight to Simmons and rummaged in his bag again, producing a small black box with white ear phones dangling from it. He put the bag on the floor, fitted the buds, and placed the box against the concrete, repositioning it a couple of times before smiling.

"It's hollow," he said. "There's a hollow space behind this."

"How much cement would we have to get through?" Simmons asked.

Fitz pressed a couple of buttons on the side of the box and listened intently. "A couple of feet, maybe less, I think."

"We're going to need drilling equipment," Simmons said. "We don't have drilling equipment, but we're going to need it."

"I've been working on something," Fitz said, straightening and wrapping the headphones around his box. "It still needs a couple of parts, but I know where to find them."

Simmons frowned. "Not the construction site. You know that would be too dangerous."

"I'm not stupid," Fitz said. "I've got a friend who can lend them to me."

"A friend?"

"A friend."

Phil could sense that an argument might be brewing, so he stepped forward. "Find your friend, Fitz. Simmons and I will wait here. Clint and the others don't have much time."

"But--"

Simmons subsided at Phil's quick frown.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," Fitz said, putting his box in his pocket. "I promise."

He was running before Simmons could say anything else. She turned the flashlight off and dropped it into the bag.

"He'll be fine," she said, but her voice sounded doubtful.

Phil nodded. "He seems competent."

"Oh, he is," Simmons said, and launched into a description of something Fitz had made, followed by story after story about their joint inventions.

Phil never figured out what most of the things they'd done were for, but talking seemed to calm Simmons, so he let her ramble and failed to focus his mind on anything except thoughts of Clint.

***

Clint's everything was starting to ache from holding still for so long. Cautiously, he wiggled his feet. Stretched his legs a little. Moved his arms.

Nothing shifted and Clint let out a quiet sigh of relief. Working slowly, he eased into a sitting position and stretched out to feel where the others were. His fingers tangled in long hair.

"Ow!" Wanda said.

Clint winced. "Sorry."

"What are you doing?" Bruce asked.

"Checking out our surroundings," Clint said. "Figuring out how much we can move safely."

There was a soft chuckle. "Getting sore from not moving?"

"Maybe."

Clint's fingers found stone, possibly concrete. A wall. He stretched in the other direction and swore when he immediately hit his hand on more rough concrete.

"This tunnel is narrow," he said. "I guess we were lucky."

There was a soft scuffing sound. Bruce was moving. "I was lucky that you found it and pushed me in."

Holding his breath, Clint stretched out a foot as far as it would go, and his boot hit something solid. Probably the rocks that had fallen across the end. "Can you tell how deep it goes?"

"Deeper than I can reach," Bruce said. "But I can't feel any air moving."

"That's bad, isn't it?" Wanda asked.

"It's not great," Clint said, before Bruce could chip in with something uselessly reassuring that Wanda wouldn't believe. "We'll run out of air eventually, but it's a big space, so it will take a long time. There will be people digging for us already."

"If they know where to look," Wanda said.

"They'll know," Bruce said.

"How?"

"Pietro will tell them, remember?" Bruce said. "They'll know exactly where to look."

"He's not very good at explaining things," Wanda said.

Clint patted her hair clumsily. "I'm sure he'll do fine."

Wanda snorted. "If you say so."

"I do, and so does Bruce." Clint patted her hair again. "Want to try sitting up? It might be more comfortable."

Working carefully in the darkness, he helped Wanda sit up and lean against the wall. The change in positions put him closer to Bruce, but when Clint nudged him to encourage him to sit, too, Bruce went tense under his hand.

"I'm fine here," Bruce said.

"What happened?"

There was a long pause, before Bruce let out a slow breath. "My knee twisted when you pushed me in here. It's a little more painful than normal."

"Shit, I'm sorry," Clint said. "Do you need anything?"

"I don't think there's anything you can do, but thanks for the offer."

"Don't thank me. I hurt your knee."

"Saving my life. I think that repays the debt several times over."

"It doesn't make a dent in the debt I owe you," Clint said. "Not for everything you've done for me over the years."

Bruce chuckled. "I've always thought that it was the other way around. You helped me more than you'll ever know."

"Then I guess we're even."

"I guess we are."

***

Phil was pacing up and down, trying to keep the chill from seeping into his bones, when voices floated down the tunnel. Two voices, one too low to be Fitz's.

Simmons had been pacing in counterpoint to him. She stopped and frowned. "He wasn't supposed to bring someone down here."

"I sounds like he did anyway," Phil said.

A wobbling beam of light appeared around the corner and a moment later Fitz emerged. The light came from a lamp strapped to his head and he was pushing something on a cart.

He wasn't alone. A large, muscular man was helping him to steady the device on the cart. His silhouette seemed familiar to Phil, but he couldn't put his finger on why until they were close enough to make out features.

Mack?

Fitz's friend with spare parts was Mack?

Phil must have said it out loud, because Simmons turned to him and said, "You know him?"

"He's been teaching me self-defence."

"He looks like he'd be very good at it. Lots of muscles in a perfect configuration." Simmons winced. "Did I say that out loud?"

"Did you say what out loud?" Fitz asked, without looking up from his cart.

"Nothing," Simmons said. "Hello. You've brought a friend. Bruce won't be happy."

Fitz and Mack, shoulders bumping, pushed the cart into place front of the pale patch of concrete. When Fitz was happy with its position, he turned and crossed his arms over his chest. Mack crouched and began fiddling with something on the base of the device.

"If we rescue Bruce and Clint before they suffocate," Fitz said, "it won't matter whether they're happy or not. They'll be alive, and Mack will have helped that happen."

"Why did you bring him?" Simmons asked. "You know the rules."

Fitz lifted his chin. "I had to bring him, or he wouldn't let me take the parts."

"You blackmailed him?"

When Mack stood, he radiated an air of danger that Phil had never felt before.

"I wanted to know why Turbo needed the parts," Mack said. "He told me and I didn't believe him. Coulson, are you part of this, too?"

Phil shrugged. "I seem to be."

"Do I want to know how that happened?"

"Maybe another time." Phil nodded to the tunnel wall. "This is more important. Do you believe Fitz, now?"

"Kind of hard to think he's insane when I've actually seen it. This place is incredible."

"It's definitely that."

Mack frowned as he turned towards the wall. "And you're sure that you can find your friends through there?"

"I've seen the plans," Phil said. "Fitz knows what he's doing."

Fitz's shoulders straightened. "Of course I do."

"Then let's get started," Mack said.

"We should probably stand back," Simmons said.

Phil eyed the contraption that Mack and Fitz were fiddling with again, heads bent close. They were such a mismatched pair, but they seemed to work together. Phil had a vague memory of Mack mentioning during a training session that he did some mechanical work on the side.

"How far back?" Phil asked, as the two mechanics pushed the device closer to the wall.

"Probably a long way back," Simmons said, walking quickly towards the last bend in the tunnel. "Just in case."

Phil shrugged and followed her.

***

The air in the tunnel was getting stuffy. Clint tried to breathe as shallowly as he could, but it probably wasn't doing much good. They would run out of air eventually.

He strained his ears, searching for any sound that might indicate the rescuers were getting closer, but there was nothing. They probably had several feet of rocks to dig through. Despite the reassurances they'd tried to give Wanda, even if Pietro had told people where they were, it might not do any good.

"I don't dislike Phil," Bruce said quietly.

Clint blinked. They hadn't even been talking about Phil. They hadn't been talking at all for a while, trying to save their air.

"What?" he asked.

"I don't dislike Phil," Bruce said again. "He seems like a good man."

"He is."

"I can see how much you care for him, and it scares me."

"Why?"

There was a soft sigh. "Because it's going to be hard, for both of you. Harder than you can possibly imagine. He comes from one world, you come from another, and I know that you'll never ask him to give up that world for you, but you can't live in his. I feel as though I'm standing on the side of a river, watching you try to swim across. I worry about you, and I admire your courage for trying."

Clint swallowed, and his voice sounded rough to his ears when he could speak. "Phil is swimming across the same river, and his journey is even harder."

"Why?"

"Because on the other side of his river, there isn't anyone watching him. No one is praying for his safety and strength. There's only Phil."

After a long pause, Bruce said, "Then I'll stand watch for both of you."

"Thank you."

Clint rested his head back against the concrete wall and closed his eyes, feeling drained and exhausted in a way he'd never been before. It wasn't the thick air making his chest tighten and his throat hurt. There were too many emotions swirling around his mind, and all he could concentrate on was how much he wanted to see Phil; how much he wanted to hold him, bury his face in Phil's neck and breathe in his scent.

He could almost feel Phil as a physical presence, somewhere close enough that he should be able to reach out and touch him.

So close.

Clint lifted his head. He could feel Phil. The warm presence at the back of his mind was stronger than it had been for hours.

Somewhere in the distance, there was a low mechanical hum. It was getting louder.

"Bruce?" Clint said.

"Hmm?"

"Can you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

The hum was getting louder, more like a buzz than a hum. Like a machine running, with a vibration that made no sense to Clint's ears. He'd never heard anything like it.

Wanda's hand suddenly gripped Clint's knee. "It's a drill!"

Clint turned his head, trying to locate the sound. It was coming from the other end of the tunnel, not the one sealed by rocks. The end he'd been sure was blocked up, because he couldn't feel any air movement in that direction.

"Did this tunnel ever connect to anything?" Clint asked.

"Not to my knowledge," Bruce said. "But it might have once. I'd have to check the older plans to be sure."

"Do you have copies of them?"

"In my office, yes."

The drilling was getting louder.

Clint grinned. "I think someone found those plans."

"What makes you say that?"

A loud, buzzing scream announced that the drill had broken through to them. The sound of the drill being pulled back through the hole echoed down the tunnel and a small circle of golden yellow light appeared.

"I guess someone found those plans," Bruce said.

"Are we being rescued?" Wanda asked.

"I think we are," Clint said. "Hey, guys, we're down here!"

***

Clint's voice sounded too rough, as though it was sore, but Phil had never heard anything sweeter. He tried to peer through the hole that the drill had made, but it was too dark inside to make out anything.

"Who's out there?" Clint asked. "Did Nat arrange this?"

Phil's lips brushed the stone when he spoke. "It's all Fitz. With some help from a friend."

There was a moment's pause, before Clint said, "Phil? Are you really there?"

"It's me," Phil said, before adding, "and Simmons."

"Where's Natasha?"

"She's trying to dig through from the other end. We took a chance on this end."

"Nat can get stubborn. Are you going to be able to break us out up there?"

Fitz and Mack were having a low-voiced discussion that Phil couldn't overhear, but they both nodded when he looked at them questioningly.

"Yes," Phil said. "It won't be long now."

"We'll be waiting."

Phil stepped back from the hole and watched as Fitz and Mack began fiddling with the contraption, adding something to the drilling end that he couldn't identify. When they pushed it back into place, it seemed to work faster than it had the first time, widening the hole almost to head width.

"That's not going to be wide enough," Fitz said, sounding worried. "We can't pull them out through that."

Mack grinned and lifted a couple of picks from where they'd been hidden on the drill's platform. "That's why we brought these, Turbo."

"I'm not good with a pick."

Mack shook his head fondly, but dropped one of the tools onto the cart and hefted the other. "Then stand back and I'll do the heavy lifting."

Widening the hole was hard work, and Mack stripped out of his shirt after a few minutes. Phil hid a smile at the slightly dazed expression on Fitz's face. It was taking a long time, though, and Phil couldn't push down the impatience churning in his stomach. Eventually, he handed his jacket to Simmons and picked up the other pick, joining Mack at the concrete wall. Each impact jarred his shoulders, but working felt better than waiting, and Phil got lost in the rhythm of it after a while.

He was so absorbed by it that he kept going for a couple more swings before he noticed that Mack had stepped back to lean on his pick. The hole was easily wide enough to pull a man through, even one with shoulders as wide as Clint's.

Phil crouched and shone a flashlight down the tunnel. It bounced off Bruce's greying curls before landing on Clint, squinting into the light and dirt-streaked, but so beautiful that Phil's breath caught in his throat.

Clint was alive and Phil had never seen anything more wonderful.

A small girl with long brown hair scrambled over the two men and ran down the tunnel. Phil stepped aside to allow her to crawl out of the hole.

"Where's Pietro?" she asked, as soon as she was out.

Simmons smiled reassuringly. "He's being looked after. I can take him to you, after we get Clint and Bruce out."

The girl nodded and gestured to Mack. "You'll need to help Bruce. He hurt his bad leg and I think his cane might be broken."

Mack and Clint had to work together to support Bruce and pull him out of the tunnel, through the hole. They couldn't find his cane and his leg wouldn't support his weight. Fitz darted in to take over for Clint, pulling Bruce's arm across his shoulder, as soon as they were out. He must have known how much Phil needed to touch Clint.

Without a moment's hesitation, Phil pulled Clint in and held him tight. Clint's arms wrapped around him and Clint's lips brushed his jaw, sending a thrill down Phil's spine that he might have savoured at any other time. The embrace was chaste and desperate at the same time, and Phil didn't think before finding Clint's lips and kissing him.

Clint's mouth tasted of dust and the memory of coffee. His lips were too dry, their teeth clashed and their noses bumped, and it was the best kiss that Phil could remember. He had Clint again, safe and alive, and he couldn't bear to stop the kiss until they were both gasping for air.

When Phil looked around, the tunnel was deserted. The only light came from a lamp that had been left sitting on the drill.

Phil couldn't suppress a smile as he met Clint's eyes. "Hello."

"Hi."

"You're alive."

"Apparently so." Clint's smile was crooked. "So are you."

"I wasn't the one trapped in a cave-in."

Clint shrugged. "It wasn't that bad. Did you get everything fixed above ground?"

"I did. Insight has been closed down. Everyone is being arrested. Your people have time to close off the tunnels under the damaged area, and I don't think the other areas are going to be developed any time soon."

"Thank you."

"I'm sorry I didn't move faster," Phil said. "You wouldn't have been trapped if I'd been able to shut Garrett down before he set off the blast."

"That's not your fault." Clint tilted his head to one side. "What happens now?"

"I don't know," Phil said. "I'll have to go back into work, but they can probably do without me for a day."

Clint nodded, but his eyes were troubled. "I meant after that. Bruce has sort of given us his blessing. There was this whole river metaphor thing, but I think he's okay with us."

"We could try taking it one day at a time," Phil said. "I'm not sure how we'll make this work, but I want to."

"So do I," Clint said fervently. "Fuck it, Phil, I want this. I want you. I know that it's going to be difficult and we're from two worlds and all that shit, but I don't want to be without you. Ever."

The happiness that rose in Phil's chest was so intense it took his breath away. He had to blink a couple of times to clear his eyes and his throat felt sore when he said, "Then we'll find a way."


	17. Epilogue

Phil applied a label to the last box and looked around his apartment, checking for any strays that had escaped his labelling frenzy. Colour-coded squares decorated each one, even the three shoeboxes he'd used in desperation last night to corral bundles of cables. Everything had been organised and packed up, ready to go.

Some of it was going into storage. The tall stack of boxes with green labels was destined for various thrift shops around the city. A few would be going to friends.

The pile of black sacks in the corner would be going into the garbage. No matter how carefully a life was curated, some of it always ended up being disposable.

Phil put the pen and wad of labels into one of the three boxes by the door. They didn't need addressing or colour-coding; they were going with him. It looked like a pitiful collection on the surface, but over the last three years, so much of his life had shifted Down Below that it should probably be more surprising that he'd been able to fill so many boxes. Most of his books were already in Clint's rooms. What he was taking today was the sentimental residue that he hadn't found an excuse to transport down there before.

The furniture had all gone earlier in the day. An old wingback chair and a couple of paintings that he couldn't stand to part with had been carried down by old friends from Below. Everything else had been sold or donated.

Phil didn't expect to need any of it again. He hoped that he wouldn't. The boxes he was putting into storage were only going there because Fury had insisted that he should keep some things. Just in case he came back.

Fury had never admitted out loud again that any of the world below existed, but they both knew where Phil was going. It wasn't a certain life. There were no guarantees. Phil had no plans to return and need all those law texts and kitchen gadgets again, but a few years ago he wouldn't have predicted that anything would make him leave the life he'd always known.

It was odd how fate worked.

Phil leaned back against the wall and surveyed the apartment again. So much had happened. This was where he'd first realised how much he loved Clint. Where they'd first had sex and admitted how much they needed each other.

Not every memory of this place was good. If he stood at the right angle, he could still see the faint hint of a dent in the wall, where Clint had thrown a would-be attacker one night. It hadn't been the first time Phil had been assaulted in his home, or the last. He'd taken care of himself, usually, thanks to Mack's lessons, but Clint had come to his rescue a few times.

Phil never admitted it out loud, but the sight of Clint in all his snarly glory, cloak flying behind him, was deeply attractive.

Clint's head would definitely swell if Phil ever told him that. It would be impossible to stop him from rushing in if he knew, and Phil preferred to rescue himself from bad situations, if it was possible.

He'd spent part of yesterday evening patching and painting the holes from the time Clint's rescue had involved a bow and arrows. They'd agreed to a ban on weapons in Phil's apartment after that incident, and Phil had temporarily covered the evidence with one of the mirrors that was now propped up in a Goodwill store.

It had definitely been a more interesting, adventure-filled three years than Phil had ever anticipated when they stood in a tunnel and promised to find a way together. Terrorists, corrupt care homes, dock workers' disputes turned ugly, Bruce's past life...they'd been through them all and then some.

Even Natasha had eventually come around to the idea that they wouldn't break each other, no matter what stood in their way.

A knock at the door pulled Phil out of his introspection. He hurried to open it, casting one last glance around the apartment as he went. There was nothing left here that he really wanted to take with him.

Simmons and Daisy waited on the other side, excited gleams in both their eyes. They weren't quite holding hands, but Phil would be willing to bet that they'd only dropped the grip a moment ago. It was entertaining to watch how bad they were at pretending they were still just friends.

"Ready?" Daisy asked.

Phil nodded.

"Can we carry anything?" Simmons asked.

Daisy brushed past Phil and whistled at the apartment. "Wow, Coulson, you really did down-size. Are you taking anything with you?"

Phil nudged his three boxes with his toe. "Just these."

"That's not much," Simmons said. "Are you sure?"

"Very sure," Phil said. "As sure as I've ever been about anything."

Daisy grinned. "Aw, that's kind of sweet."

Phil glared. "You can take the top box on the pile."

"Is that the heaviest?"

"Lift it and find out."

***

The tunnels felt like home. Phil didn't need Simmons to lead the way; he knew it as well as he knew the route from his apartment to the DA's office. They took an indirect route from his basement to the core living areas, but it avoided jumps across streams and chasms that would have been dangerous with the boxes they were carrying.

He poked his head around Bruce's door as he passed the office. Bruce was teaching a small group of teenagers--Shakespeare from the sound of it--but Natasha looked up from her seat in the corner to smile and wave. Phil nodded and smiled, before moving on.

Someone had left a small cart at the junction that would take him down to Clint's--their--quarters. It looked like Fitz's creation, although Mack had probably been the one to prompt him to do it. Daisy and Simmons put down their burdens quickly, although they hadn't been heavy. Phil had saved the worst for himself.

Daisy coughed before saying, "I guess this is it, then."

"You won't miss me," Phil said. "You're down here all the time."

"It won't be the same, though," Daisy said. "You won't be bugging me to hack into things and search records I shouldn't have access to."

"Who says I won't?"

Daisy laughed and Simmons grabbed her hand, dragging her away before either of them could do anything sentimental like hug or cry. Phil smiled to himself and began pushing his cart.

Clint's door was open, spilling golden light out into the tunnel. It was as warm and inviting as it had felt on that first day after Phil's bandages came off, except now some of the books and paintings lining the walls were his. He pushed his cart inside and closed the door, leaning back against it.

The golden light came from lamps hanging and standing around the room. Technically, the room had been connected to their electric grid a couple of years ago, but Clint never used the strip lights overhead. He preferred the glow from the oil lamps, even though they were a messy fire risk.

Phil couldn't blame him. There was something special about the quality of the light.

The stained glass window above Clint's bed glowed, sending coloured spots darting around the room. It gave the illusion that they were in an oddly-decorated apartment above ground, except Phil knew they were far below the earth here. Somewhere in the distance, a subway train clattered past, shattering the illusion.

Clint was lying across his bed, a book on his slowly rising and falling chest. He almost looked too peaceful to disturb.

Almost.

Phil hadn't seen him for two days. Maybe when they'd been living together here for a while, he wouldn't get impatient to touch every time he saw Clint. Maybe when they'd woken up tangled together a hundred times, it would be easier to be apart for a while.

It seemed unlikely, but Phil didn't have any practice at living with the man he loved. The way he felt might mellow and grow less urgent with time and familiarity. Three years of stolen nights and rare days hadn't been enough.

Phil tugged his boots off as quietly as he could and padded across the room. Clint didn't stir, even when Phil sat on the edge of the bed. Only Natasha and Bruce could walk across the room without waking Clint. Everyone else triggered some deep instinct to stay wary.

It was flattering to know that he was in that group of trusted people.

Phil reached out and rested his hand on Clint's thigh, smiling when Clint's eyes blinked open. They were warm and sleepy, an unexpected contrast to the fierce leonine face, and Phil wouldn't change anything about him. The kind man inside the strange body was everything he'd ever wanted.

"Hi," Phil said. "I'm home."

The smile that creased Clint's face showed a hint of sharp teeth, but it was fond. "That sounds nice. I was waiting up for you."

Phil tapped the book cover. "So I see."

"Did you finish everything?"

"Yes," Phil said. "I don't need to go back again. Everything I need is here."

Clint's smile widened. "You know that you'll go back as soon as someone is in trouble and needs you."

Phil shrugged. "Maybe for a few hours. This is home, now."

"You know, you can keep saying you're home, as much as you want. I really like the sound of it."

"That's good, because I like saying it." Phil stretched out next to Clint and leaned over him, bracing himself with a hand on the bed beside Clint's head. "I'm home. We got here."

"Yeah, we did," Clint said. "This isn't a bad ending for a carnie monster and a stuffy lawyer, is it?"

"I was never stuffy."

"Yeah, Phi, you really were. You couldn't remember the last time you'd read a book or done something you actually liked."

Phil sighed. "Damn, I was stuffy."

"And now you've run away with the carnie monster, to live in his land of misfit toys under the city."

"You know what I call this?" Phil asked, smiling when Clint shook his head. "A happy ending."

Clint's response was to pull Phil down into a deep, needy kiss that drove all thoughts of endings and fates from Phil's mind. It was the perfect way to begin.

**Author's Note:**

> Why yes, that poetry I quoted at the top comes from the cave-in episode of Beauty and the Beast, which I borrowed from a little when writing the climax of this fic. It seemed appropriate to use as the title.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for "And Eternity in an Hour" by selenay936](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5204738) by [paleogymnast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paleogymnast/pseuds/paleogymnast)




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